


Back-up Plans

by Ellis_Hendricks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awesome Molly Hooper, Choose your godparents wisely, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, F/M, Godfather Sherlock, Godmother Molly, Mary ships Molly and Sherlock, Molly Hooper/Mary Morstan Friendship, Pre-Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-14 04:10:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11200173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellis_Hendricks/pseuds/Ellis_Hendricks
Summary: There was a good reason why Mary chose Molly to be godmother to her child - she could feel her past catching up with her. Set around the time of 'The Six Thatchers', kicking off with an extension to the scene in the Watsons' home. Established Warstan, with Sherlolly implied for the future (might become more than implied - haven't thought that far ahead yet!). Have been wanting to write something else from Mary's POV - and also highlight again why Molly is so awesome!





	1. Chapter 1

“Ahem!”

Mary cleared her throat theatrically, and stared pointedly at the man on the other side of the living room, whose thumbs were still moving rapidly across the screen of his phone.

“Oi! Lanky! Get yourself over here and come and say a proper hello to your goddaughter,” she insisted. “Or I’m withdrawing that offer of cake.”

John had disappeared into the kitchen to make tea, but Sherlock had remained in the living room, engrossed in whatever case or curiosity that had come his way that day (and honestly, how important could it be?) He looked up with a slight scowl.  Mary was waiting on the no-doubt scabrous retort that would be coming her way, and true to form, Sherlock opened his mouth to say something – and then abruptly stopped. Instead, he stared. But quite clearly not at her – his gaze instead fell to her right.

On Molly.

Puzzled for a second, Mary glanced sideways at her friend, who was cradling the baby and apparently oblivious to the conversation going on around her. Mary looked back up at Sherlock, who for a fleeting moment had the startled look of a man who had been caught out, before recovering himself and shifting to a more neutral expression.

But Mary hadn’t missed it. Sherlock Holmes had been reacting to the sight of Molly Hooper – with a baby. And the nature of his reaction was irrefutable.

Mary had to bite down on a smile. This was just the latest in a series of little incidents and occurrences that made her more certain than ever that  _something_  was shifting.  

She raised her eyebrows at Sherlock and offered him a bright smile, which he countered with the irritated look of a little brother whose big sister has got one over on him again. He was not giving ground; he was admitting to nothing.

“As I was saying,” she continued, adopting the kind of breezy tone she knew was guaranteed to irk him. “Come and say hello. I’ll hold your phone.”

“No,” Sherlock replied resolutely, even as he crossed the room towards the sofa.

Mary tilted her head and gave him a look.

“Phone.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“I should have gone home with Mrs Hudson.”

He slapped the phone into Mary’s outstretched palm.

“Good boy!” she grinned, tucking the phone under the sofa cushion beside her. She wondered how long it would be before Sherlock started to exhibit physical withdrawal symptoms. “Now sit!”

Heaving a dramatic sigh, Sherlock popped the button on his suit jacket before taking a seat to Mary’s left. It seemed to be this action that prompted Molly to look up from the baby, and she seemed slightly startled to see that Sherlock had moved. Mary noticed her friends making eye contact for a second before Sherlock shifted his gaze to his knees and Molly focused hers on the baby’s forehead.

“Do you, um,” Molly began, flicking her eyes across to Sherlock. “Do you want to hold her?”

Mary saw Sherlock’s mouth open again, but she wasn’t going to let him answer that one.

“’Course he does!” Mary replied. “Yes, you  _do_ , Sherlock,” she added, as she heard the first note of objection.

He shot her a dirty look, which she deliberately ignored.

Molly carefully stood up, holding the baby close to her chest. Mary nudged Sherlock sharply in the ribs, promptly him get to his feet, too. He stood stock still, like an awkward teenage boy at a school disco, until Molly was standing right in front of him. Mary watched them have a detailed interaction using only their eyes, as Molly rose onto her tiptoes and Sherlock stooped slightly, their bodies meeting so that the baby could be transferred. It took a few moments after the baby was in Sherlock’s arms, Mary noticed, for his gaze to leave Molly.

“Aw, look, he’s a natural!” Mary grinned. There was almost nothing more satisfying than teasing Sherlock Holmes – and so easy, too.

“Natural at what?” John asked, returning to the living room with a tray of mugs. He clocked the sight of his friend holding the baby.

“Oh my God,” he said, setting the tray down on the coffee table. “How did you manage that?”

Mary smiled, leaning her elbows on her knees and settling her chin in her hands.

“Oh, he couldn’t wait,” she replied, winking. “I think we made a good choice of godfather there.”

“Did you steal his phone?” John asked. It was barely a question.

Mary tilted her head first left and then right, indicating that she wouldn’t be drawn on that subject. She wasn’t sure that Sherlock was even listening anymore. Instead of sitting back down as Mary assumed she would, Molly had stayed standing, and was busy giving small, tentative attentions to the bundle in Sherlock’s arms, stroking the baby’s wrists, her cheeks. Although  _her_  eyes were firmly on the baby, Sherlock’s were most definitely on Molly.

Mary took the cup of tea that her husband handed to her. He looked at her questioningly, cocking his head, and she replied with a shrug of innocence. John narrowed his eyes as if to tell her to be careful; not to push things.

But it was hard not to want to. Everything seemed so steady, so perfect at the moment; she and John were in a better place, their baby was here and was healthy (if still unnamed – they would really have to resolve that soon), and they were surrounded by friends. Sherlock was clean again, and he looked healthy, fit and – by his standards – was in good humour these days. As for Molly, she too looked relaxed and happy, not to mention lovely in that outfit – and Sherlock Holmes was a bloody idiot for not seeing it. Although it seemed likely to Mary that he  _did_  see it, but just didn’t know what to do with that information or any feelings it might stir.

“Can you see yourself doing this?” Mary asked, smiling. It was ostensibly addressed to Molly, but she noticed Sherlock’s head spun round, too. There was a fleeting look of horror before he recovered himself.

Molly was blushing slightly, and Mary suddenly felt a little guilty for putting her friend on the spot like that. It wasn’t as though she was unware of the feelings Molly had for the man in front of her, although they’d never discussed it.

“Oh…I don’t know,” Molly replied, eventually. “I mean, maybe…but it’s not really…I’m not really in the…right, um, situation.”

It was an oblique reference to Tom, Mary knew - and what could have been.

“Well, whatever the situation, never let the lack of a man hold you back, Molls,” Mary grinned. “Science has made them pretty much obsolete anyway, hasn’t it?”

“Thanks,” muttered John, and she patted him on the arm, indulgently.

When Mary glanced up at Sherlock, he was aiming a slightly disgusted look in her direction that was so perfect it almost made her spit her tea. Seemed as though this particular man of science didn’t approve of her implication that Molly could – or should – go it alone. Mary thought about making the point that Molly had a good job, owned her own home, could afford great childcare, etc, just to see what Sherlock’s reaction would be – but it didn’t seem fair to put her child’s new godmother in the spotlight, just because she enjoyed seeing the godfather squirm.

But there was a serious point, and Mary wanted Sherlock to see it, acknowledge it. No good circling a woman at a safe distance, sabotaging her attempts at a social life, and just assuming she’ll always be there at your beck and call, all because you’re too bloody proud (and scared) to admit that you have feelings like everyone else.  

“Well, being a godmother is lovely, anyway,” Molly said. “And it’s, you know, an honour. It means a lot to be asked.”

At that, Sherlock seemed to make some kind of ‘humph’ sound.

“Yeah, well, don’t worry, Sherlock,” John said in response. “We didn’t ask you because we thought you’d be the best person to provide moral and spiritual guidance for our daughter. And by the way, she’s not an explosive device.”

Mary smiled; Sherlock did look as though he was holding some kind of rigged package.

“I thought that’s exactly what babies were,” Sherlock muttered. “Both ends.”

Mary offered him a sarcastic  _ha ha_  smile.

“So when’s the christening going to be?” Molly asked, still standing beside Sherlock, her hand still stroking the baby’s arm.

“Er, not sure yet,” John replied. “Depends a bit when they can fit us in. Hopefully in the next couple of months, though.”

“People actually join a  _waiting list_  to have their offspring initiated into irrational, invisible-deity-worshipping cults?” Sherlock frowned.

Molly elbowed him in the ribs and gave him a sharp look. Mary smiled.

“Shush!” Molly admonished. “Can’t you just be nice about it?”

“Yeah, Sherlock,” Mary grinned. “All you have to do is stand at the front of a church beside Molly and say yes when the vicar asks you a question. Nothing life-changing.”

“Molly  _and_  Mrs Hudson,” put in John. Mary gauged from her husband’s tone that he felt she’d gone too far.

The sight of Molly’s blushes and Sherlock’s adolescent snarl made her think that maybe he had a point.

Just then, there was a series of loud buzzing noises emanating from somewhere to her left, and Mary saw Sherlock looking visibly anxious.

“Look, I’m in the middle of four different consultations at the moment,” he said, blinking rapidly. “I’m expecting some crime scene photos from Lestrade’s team, and a copy of a post-mortem report from Bart’s – that’s probably them now. Lives could well depend on this, so if you’ll kindly-”

Mary rolled her eyes and got to her feet.

“Okay, okay, keep your fifty-quid pants on,” she said, holding her hands out to take her daughter from the consulting detective, only just obtaining a firm grip on her before Sherlock released his and took off to the sofa to retrieve his phone.

Molly took a seat beside Mary on the sofa again, picking up her champagne flute and taking a sip.

Sherlock suddenly paused in his typing, frowned and looked up.

“John, how is it that your wife knows how much my pants cost?”

John smirked.

“I was about to ask you the same question, but decided I didn’t want to know the answer.”

“I’ve seen the labels,” Mary shrugged. “Serves you right for leaving your dirty washing lying around the place.”

This wasn’t actually the whole truth; that particular nugget of information had come from Molly, who had confided to Mary about Sherlock’s occasional ‘sleepovers’, and the resulting laundry that made it into the basket with her own. No twelve-quid multipack from M&S for Sherlock Holmes, it seemed.

“Oh, for-!“ Sherlock exclaimed, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “Barrett has sent the wrong post-mortem report! How can he possibly confuse the corpse of an eighty-two-year-old woman with that of a twenty-six year old man? And if that wasn’t clear enough, the name is on the bloody toe-tag!”

“You realise you can’t do this during the actual christening, right?” John asked.

Mary saw Molly get to her feet, smoothing down her dress and placing the glass on the coffee table.

“I’ll come and get you the report,” she said to Sherlock. “Barrett’s on a back-to-back shift. He’s probably half-asleep by now.”

“Isn’t it your day off, Molls?” Mary asked, knowing full well the answer to that question.

“Yeah, but it’s on the way,” she replied, breezily. “Well, near enough.”

It really wasn’t, but Mary opted not to say anything.

“What are you waiting for, Molly?” Sherlock asked, already halfway to the door. Within seconds, he was waving Molly’s coat at her, tapping his foot impatiently. “Is that sparkling wine impairing your motor skills?”

“That was champagne, you git,” John interjected.

“Hmmm, not unless there’s a Champagne region in the foothills of Romania,” Sherlock replied, with a tilt of the head. “Perhaps next time don’t go for the Special Offer at the local corner shop.”

Mary saw her husband glower at his friend.

“I’m coming,” Molly assured Sherlock, hoisting her handbag onto her shoulder. “Give me a second.”

Mary watched in amusement as Molly dashed back across to the table, deftly folded a couple of sandwiches from her plate into a napkin and tucked them into her bag.

“These were lovely,” she said, by way of explanation. “Sorry. I haven’t been to the shops yet, and Sherlock will probably keep me at the morgue for ages.”

Mary clocked Sherlock’s reaction; it was expressing exasperation, but there was an underlying  _something_  else.

“Thanks again, both of you,” Molly said over her shoulder as Sherlock herded her towards the door. “It’s been a lovely afternoon. It’s just, I’m so-”

“-happy, honoured, generally contented, warm and fuzzy inside, slightly drunk, yes, yes,” Sherlock filled in, raising his wrist to look at his watch. “Now…”

He made a shooing gesture behind Molly’s back.

Accepting that Sherlock was not going to allow for any kind of drawn-out, fond goodbye, Mary instead offered a little wave – and then watched the scene play out.

“We could go on the bus. I’ve got my Oyster,” Molly said, as she opened the front door.

“Nope.”

“Well, I’ve got, like…” – a rustle around in her handbag while Sherlock gave a barely suppressed sigh - “…three pounds fifty.”

Sherlock’s face scrunched up to resemble a used tissue.

“What exactly were you planning to do with three pounds fifty?”

“Nothing. I  _was_  going home, remember?” Molly replied with a short huff. “So, are you paying for the cab?”

In reply, Sherlock brandished a sheaf of notes from his pocket.

“Ooh, looks like you’ll still have change for a new pair of pants there, too,” Molly told Sherlock, grinning at him and aiming a flash of a smile over her shoulder at Mary. Yep, she was indeed slightly tipsy, and Mary loved her for it.

When the front door closed, there was a moment of silence before John spoke.

“What…was that?” he frowned.

“What was what?” Mary asked, innocuously, as though she hadn’t also witnessed a scene from a 1940s screwball comedy play out in their own living room.

She watched his mouth open, his eyebrows knit for a moment, and then his mouth close again. He screwed his eyes shut and shook his head as though to clear his brain.

“Never mind,” he said. “Whatever it was, I’m putting it down to sleep deprivation.”

Mary grinned, squeezing his arm and leaning into his side.

“Probably for the best, love,” she nodded. Their daughter had, by some miracle, drifted back off to sleep in her arms.  

“It was  _your_  idea to have godparents,” he said, his mouth against her hair. “I hope we’re not going to regret it.”

Mary smiled to herself as she wondered what kind of interaction was taking place in the cab making its way to Bart’s; as she thought about the colour, the richness and the incomparable  _weirdness_  their friends would bring to their daughter’s life.

No regrets whatsoever.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

She could still remember the conversation they had shortly after their daughter was born; it had played out a couple of days later, once they were back in the flat…

“You want to ask, Molly, too?” John had asked, looking nonplussed.

Mary hadn’t expected him to be so taken aback.

“Yes. Something wrong with that?”

“No, ‘course not. Just a bit…surprised.”

“Why? She’s lovely, and she’s been an amazing friend – especially while I was pregnant, and you two were off gallivanting god-knows-where at all hours of the day and night.”

John had frowned, shifting the baby in his arms.

“Yeah. But you have other friends.”

“Not really,” she had replied. “Not like Molly.”

Not like Molly because, unlike the men and women who populated the tables at their wedding, their relationship was genuine, and had been formed after Mary’s decision to take a chance on leaving her old life behind and settling down with John. In addition, Molly felt part of their little ‘inner circle, but just enough, not too much – Mary needed her to be not quite as caught up in things as she, John and Sherlock were.

“She’ll be a good role model, too,” Mary added. “You know – smart, capable woman with a cool job.”

John smirked.

“You’re all of those things, too,” he replied. “And you had a pretty cool job, too - although not something we really want our daughter telling everyone in her pre-school class.”

Mary had allowed herself a short laugh at that.

“Suppose she’ll be good for babysitting,” John continued. “She gets plenty of practice with the world’s only consulting toddler.”

“Oh, I fully intend for Sherlock Holmes to take on all of the responsibilities of godparenting, too,” Mary had said with a grin. “Babysitting included. He’s a man living in the twenty-first century; no excuses. You never know, John, he might need it himself one day.”

John had snorted at that. Probably because he didn’t see what she saw.

“Fine. Ask Molly, too. Three godparents is better than two, right? Especially when one of them’s Sherlock.”

…

She had to admit that she hadn’t told John the full story, why it was important for her to have Molly involved. Yes, she was a friend, and yes, she was someone whose values Mary admired, but it was more than that. For Sherlock and Mrs Hudson, naming them as godparents was for  _their_  benefit , even if it wasn’t expressed that way. It was a thank-you to Mrs Hudson, and the offer of a new role as a surrogate grandmother; for Sherlock, it was a demonstration that he was valued, that they believed him capable of it, and a reassurance that their new family of three wasn’t closed off to him. Because it was a real fear for Molly, that a feeling of loneliness, of being without a rudder, might descend and send him spinning off into oblivion.

But when it came to Molly, her involvement was for Rosie’s benefit. Molly Hooper was strongly practical, utterly dependable and fiercely loyal to those who needed her. There was nothing, Mary believed, that would ever prove a barrier to Molly, and if the chips were down –  _when_ they were down, Mary acknowledged – she would be there for Rosie.

And now, as she sat watching over her four-month-old daughter in her bouncy chair, Mary knew this was more important than ever. And not just that Molly could be there for Rosie, but that she would be there for John and Sherlock, too. It caused a deep ache in her chest just to think of it, but she had to be pragmatic – if her previous career had taught her anything, it was that having no contingency plan was idiotic. And she loved Rosie too much not to plan for as many eventualities as she possibly could.

If the worst happened – and she couldn’t pretend that it absolutely wouldn’t – Molly would be there for John. Practical, everyday help, keeping him from going under. And she would hold Sherlock together, too – if he would let anyone close enough, accept help from anyone, it would be her. Sherlock valued Molly’s practical help, her professional input - that was clear to everyone - but Mary knew she could give him much more, could be the missing half of him, if he’d let her. And in a crisis, Molly would grab the controls and hold on until her knuckles turned numb.

The doorbell rang, and Mary eased herself to her feet, assuring Rosie that she wasn’t going far.

She opened the door and Molly was there, wrapped up in her big winter coat, her long stripy scarf wound around her neck and half of her face.

“Hi,” she said brightly. “Am I early? I came straight after my shift. I wanted you to have enough time for you to, you know, tell me everything.”

Mary smiled, ushering her in out of the cold.

“We’re not exactly working to deadlines here,” Mary told her, watching as Molly went right over to Rosie to say hello, before she’d even taken off her coat. “I never thought I’d see it as a massive achievement just to make it to the shops before lunchtime, but there you go.”

Molly grinned back at her, chucking her duffel bag down and shrugging out of her coat.

“Am I okay to pick her up?” she asked.

Mary nodded.

“Hmm, yeah, go for it,” she told her. “She’ll be pleased to see a different face. Can I get you a cuppa?”

Molly nodded enthusiastically before crouching down, unclipping Rosie from her bouncy chair and gently lifting her into her arms. Mary watched from the open-plan kitchen; gone was the hesitancy on show when Molly first held Rosie, replaced with an assuredness and what was clearly real affection.

“I’ve got cake, too,” Mary told her, as Molly joined her in the kitchen. “It’s been staring at me all day, so it’s a bloody miracle I haven’t eaten it. Something about looking after a baby really makes you want to eat crap – it’s like self-medicating with sugar.”

“Oh, I won’t say no,” Molly replied. “All I’ve eaten today is a ham salad sandwich and a packet of Quavers from the canteen. They really scrimped on the ham, too. Probably the cuts.”

Mary poured the hot water into the teapot and stuck the tea cosy over the top. She didn’t mind a teabag in a mug, but, thanks largely to Mrs Hudson, John had got used to a proper teapot, and always pulled a face at mug tea.

“Thanks again for this, Molls,” she said, as she sliced two pieces of banana and toffee cake from the loaf. “We won’t be out late. We’re usually both wiped out by nine anyway.”

“We’ll be fine,” Molly told her, grinning at Rosie. “Rosie will keep me right. You meeting John after work?”

“Yeah, he’s at the surgery today. We’re just going to the pub down the road from there – I’m planning on having a bloody massive pie and mash, to make up for the fact that I can’t drink.”

Molly grinned.

“Well, when you’re able to drink again, we’ll have a big night.”

Mary forced herself to smile in return.

“Yeah,” she nodded. It was hard to agree to things she couldn’t commit to.

They moved across to the sofa, and Molly sat with Rosie on her knee. There was an unspoken agreement that they’d take it in turns eating and drinking; Molly could have put Rosie back in her bouncer, but Mary got the feeling she wasn’t in any hurry. Molly talked about work, about hospital politics, about moving to a new shift system – and Mary listened. It was hard not to envy Molly the normal, predictable things in her daily life.

Once they’d finished, Mary stood up with Rosie.

“Right! So – nappy tutorial?”

Molly smiled, nodding through her last mouthful of cake.

“Yeah. Sounds like a good idea. I haven’t changed a nappy since I was in sixth form – used to babysit for a few families around our street. Hope babies haven’t changed much in the past twenty years!”

Mary smiled as she took Rosie over to the changing mat set out on the floor.

“No, still pretty disgusting,” she replied. “But the nappies themselves are better. You’ll have this sorted in no time, Molls.”

Mary watched while Molly tackled a nappy-change, and then showed her how to prepare Rosie’s bottles from the milk stored in the freezer. She talked her through the night-time routine, showed her where Rosie’s clothes and sleeping bag were, and made sure she had located her daughter’s favoured soft toy. As she walked through each step, she tried to ignore the heaviness that threatened to take over her body; she had to remind herself that she was coming back, that she wasn’t handing Rosie over to the permanent care of another. But she knew why she felt that way, and forced herself to focus on the goal.

She just wished it didn’t feel as though she was lying to Molly.

 

000000000

When they approached their front door later that evening (somewhat later than the promised 9pm), everything was quiet. Mary hoped Molly hadn’t spent the past five hours pacing the floor with a distressed Rosie; however confident she was in Molly, however vital she believed this step to be, perhaps Rosie was still too young to be left. She was almost expecting to find both Molly and Rosie collapsed on the sofa.

“Hi, Molly! So sorry we’re a bit-”

Molly Hooper was indeed on the sofa, but she was not alone.

“Sherlock - hi,” Mary said, as her surprise gave way to confusion, her mind running through a series of possible explanations for this.

Molly was sitting at one end of the sofa with her knees tucked underneath her, book in hand and a throw across her knees; Sherlock was at the opposite end with his phone (of course), his suit jacket folded neatly over the arm of the sofa. He glanced up from the screen of his phone, his level of interest in their arrival clearly very low.

“Hi!” Molly replied, equally brightly, putting down her book. “D’you have a nice night?”

“Er…yeah,” John replied slowly. “Thanks.”

Mary could see that her husband was looking sideways at his friend, trying to puzzle this out.

“Didn’t I mention my babysitting rules?” Mary grinned. “No boys allowed to come over.”

She saw Molly flick a glance over to Sherlock, the tiniest hint of a blush colouring her cheeks. Mary saw his eyebrow twitch, while he kept his attention on his phone – he wanted to make it clear he had no interest in her juvenile insinuations. _Tough luck._

“Sherlock just came over to ask me about something,” Molly began, moving the throw off her knees.

“Needed a second opinion on some anomalous lab results,” Sherlock put in, distractedly.

“All the way to Stoke Newington? At nine o’clock on a Friday night?” John asked.

Although she wasn’t sure John had seen it, the momentary expression that passed over Molly’s face told Mary that Sherlock had been there a lot longer than that.

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed, frowning at his phone. “Vital.”

“And yet…you’re still here,” John replied, folding his arms. “Hang on, can I smell bacon?”

Mary had noticed that, too, and at the mention of it Molly acquired a slightly guilty look – Sherlock, she noticed, did not.

“Yes. Nothing in the fridge at Baker Street,” Sherlock replied, plainly. “Well, nothing that would ordinarily be characterised as for human consumption.”

“And whose fault is that?” John gaped.

“Sorry. I did tell him,” Molly began.

 “Don’t apologise, Molly,” Sherlock said, with a wave of his hand. “I’m fairly certain that one of the generally understood perks of babysitting is ready access to the householder’s refrigerator and kitchen cupboards. Presumably they’re not paying you?”

“Um, no,” Molly replied, frowning back at him. “It’s called a favour, Sherlock. It’s what friends do.”

Sherlock gave a small shake of his head, as though telling them all how foolish this sounded.  

“Anyway, thanks, Sherlock,” John huffed. “I was actually going to eat that bacon for breakfast tomorrow.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock murmured. “After the results of your most recent cholesterol check, John, I can’t help but feel that I did you a favour.”

Mary was struggling to suppress her smile, and could see that Molly was – albeit guiltily – trying to do the same.

“My blood pressure was too high as well, Sherlock,” John sighed. “You know how you could help me with that? Stop being a cock.”

It was time to put a stop to this, or else none of them would ever get to bed – or if they did, John would lie awake stewing all night, and generally radiating an air of suppressed fury that would prevent her sleeping too. Mary knew that it exasperated her husband that Sherlock smoked, ate like a student and took no regular form of exercise at all, but somehow managed to exceed him in every medical assessment.

“Okay, okay,” Mary said, holding up her hands. “John – Sherlock’s right about your cholesterol. Sherlock – there had better be something left in our fridge beyond margarine and celery.”

She aimed a warning look in Sherlock’s direction, and for a second he had the decency to look slightly contrite.

“I’ll make some coffee,” John offered, before trailing off to the kitchen. Mary was grateful; after all, there was a purpose of sorts to the evening – even if her husband wasn’t aware of it - and she needed to get back to it. 

“Was everything okay tonight?” Mary asked Molly, slipping off her shoes and perching on the chair opposite.

Molly smiled, yawning slightly.

“Yeah, absolutely fine. Rosie was a sweetheart,” she said. “We read a couple of stories on the sofa here, then she had her bottle in the bedroom, we had a few songs and a cuddle, and she was out in no time.”

Mary smiled, noticing out of the corner of her eye that Sherlock was staring at his phone slightly too intently, the way he did when he wanted people to think he wasn’t listening.

“She woke up about an hour ago and was a bit upset,” Molly continued. “I tried her with some more milk but she didn’t seem to really want any, so we walked up and down the room for a bit until she calmed down.”

Mary felt a rush of warmth, but she was aware that it was tinged with something else. There was an innate conflict there – she wanted, _needed_ , Molly to be capable of caring for her daughter, but it still tugged on something primal inside her.

“You look amazingly relaxed for someone who’s just taken care of a four-month old for the first time, Molls,” she said, forcing herself to retain the smile.

Molly shook her head.

“Honestly, she was great. And I think the music Sherlock put on really helped her settle the second time. Something about sheep, wasn’t it?”

As Mary turned her head very deliberately towards Sherlock, he cleared his throat.

“Rosamund seemed to favour Bach’s ‘Schafe können sicher weiden’” he said matter-of-factly. “Easy enough to download. And I think it’s rather simplistic to dismiss such a recognised masterpiece of the Baroque period as being ‘about sheep’, Molly.”

“I did German GCSE, Sherlock. I know ‘schaf’ is a sheep.”

“I did French GCSE, Molly, and I therefore know that the French for Philistine is ‘Philistin’.”

Mary saw Molly shoot Sherlock a sarcastic smile, but there was clearly no animosity there. She wondered if they’d been sparring – no, flirting – like this all evening.

“Well, next time we go out, Sherlock,” John called from the kitchen. “You can babysit Rosie with nothing more than your classical playlist to help you. Molly is definitely due a break – especially as she had no idea she’d be babysitting for two tonight.”

Sherlock sighed.

“Ah, John, it has taken you a mere seven minutes and approximately forty seconds to utter that tired and predictable witticism,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’ll take that coffee to go.”

As Molly rose and started to look around for her belongings, Mary picked up the petite but sensible, laced brogues her friend wore to work and handed them to her. She waited while Molly put them on, suddenly anxious that they have a word alone. So often she felt on the verge of telling her everything, knowing the huge weight of relief that would inevitably bring – but that wouldn’t be fair to Molly. Also, if Molly were to turn away from her as a result, who else could she turn to? Not only was it a lie, but it felt like a selfish one too. But then she kept coming back to Rosie, and the fierce, all-consuming love she felt for her little girl.

“I really do appreciate you doing this, Molls,” she said. “I hope you know that we didn’t give Rosie godparents just so we could score some nights out.”

Molly grinned, taking her coat from Mary.

“It’s fine, really – I enjoyed it. Happy to do it again. It’s…,” - she paused, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear - “…it’s going to be a real privilege to watch Rosie grow up.”

Mary wondered whether she caught a note of wistfulness there, as though perhaps Molly believed her own time had passed. That she’d had her chance and in the end chosen to reject it.

“Anyway!” Molly said, clearly rallying herself. “What else would I be doing on a Friday night?”

Mary smiled in response as she was expected to, trying not to glance across at the man frowning at his phone by the front door, who had a _lot_ to answer for.

“Do you need a lift to the Tube, Molly?” John asked, clearly realising that Molly wasn’t intending to stay for coffee. She probably had an early shift the next day, Mary realised, and had been too polite to say anything.

“I am standing here, too, you realise, John,” Sherlock put in, without looking up from his phone.

“Yeah, but-”

“Molly’s coming with me,” he stated simply.

Mary saw Molly perform a classic double take, at the same time as her own eyes swiveled to Sherlock.

“Am I?”

“Yes. We’re going to get chips. Call it a repayment for the second opinion,” Sherlock elaborated. “And the fact that you didn’t tell John and Mary that I ate the remaining apple pie that was in the fridge.”

“You did what?” John balked, blinking.

Mary took his arm and drew her husband in until she could wrap her arm around his waist. All these years, and there was nobody else who could push his buttons like Sherlock Holmes.

“Are you buying the chips?” Molly queried.

“Are you deliberately playing the destitute act again?” Sherlock sighed. “Because I know for a fact that specialist registrars in your field are paid quite handsomely.”

Molly snorted.

“And yet I still feel like I deserve a pay rise,” she muttered, before adding. “If you want my company, Sherlock, you’re buying the chips.”

They had disappeared into the night before Mary could hear any kind of retort from Sherlock, and she found herself puzzling over whether it was a date; in Sherlock’s world, perhaps gatecrashing a woman’s quiet evening of babysitting and then hauling her off for junk food constituted a demonstration of interest.

John seemed to have calmed down about the fridge invasion, and had found some of the leftover cake to appease his indignation.

“Coffee?” he asked, gesturing to the mug he’d placed on the table.

“Yeah,” Mary replied. “Just going to check on Rosie.”

She padded through to the bedroom, hearing Rosie’s soft snores before she could even see her. Her daughter lay asleep on her back, arms thrown back over her head – a sure sign that she was at peace. She felt her face spread into a smile – Rosie had John’s nose and mouth, and no mistake. Well, as long as she didn’t also have his temper, his taste in music and the problem with foot sweat, she’d be fine.

Somehow, Rosie’s favourite soft toy had ended up down by her feet, and Mary reached in to tuck it beside her daughter’s face. Gently, her hand almost quivering, she ghosted her fingers across Rosie’s forehead, down her rounded cheeks. Bent her head low to kiss her temple where Rosie’s quick pulse could be seen beneath her almost translucent skin.

She had to believe that she would be doing this every night for many years to come; that every day of Rosie’s childhood would end this way. But it felt telling that she couldn’t _picture_ it. That she couldn’t picture the first day at school, sports days and parties, and everything else that would be part of her daughter’s future. The unfairness of it all was like a rock in her stomach, something she dragged around with her every day, unbeknown by even those closest to her.

Mary swiped at her cheek, refusing to shed tears over this – not yet. She still had her beautiful daughter, and there was nothing to say that it wouldn’t always be the case.

But in the meantime, it was right to make plans.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Having something as concrete and tangible as the christening on which to focus felt like a real blessing. Bookings to confirm, catering to organise, a guest list to fine-tune; all of these things could be worked through from start to finish – because it was all of the other uncertainties that kept her awake after feeding Rosie, that snuck up on her on walks in the park with her daughter.

And it had been fun, too. She had enjoyed planning the wedding, and there was in some ways a sense of deja-vu. The starting point for the guest list was actually the list they had made for the wedding – and it was at this point that Sherlock had seen fit to get involved again. In the space of five minutes, he had weeded out several people he had negatively deduced at the wedding, including yet another cousin of John’s who apparently didn’t like her (bitch), plus two people who had grumbled about the food (bloody cheek) – and her ex-boyfriend, David (probably for the best, as until she saw him again at the wedding, she’d completely overlooked his alarming resemblance to John). Mary suspected there would be others who would still be too traumatised by the wedding to come to the christening (particularly when they saw Sherlock named as a godparent in the invitation). One name both of them deftly skimmed over was Janine’s.

But the wedding/christening comparisons only went so far. A year ago, there was every reason to feel as though this was working; that allowing herself to fall in love, taking a chance on a serious relationship, was going to help her put her past to rest. John had made it so easy, from the moment she met him.

But then two things happened in quick succession: the wedding telegram, and the news of her pregnancy. Mary had hoped to God she was mistaken over the message from ‘CAM’, and it seemed so bloody unfair that it loomed over her in the moment she discovered about her much longed-for pregnancy. She and John hadn’t been careful – why would they? They were both the wrong side of forty, and if a family was ever going to happen, they couldn’t be picky about their moment. It tore at her heart when the thought surfaced from time to time – but would she have allowed herself to get pregnant if the warning shot from Magnussen had come sooner? Would she had fled under cover of night before the wedding could even happen?

But Rosie was here, and she was loved, and life carried on.

When Rosie woke for her 5am feed, John had begun to groggily stumble out from under the covers, but Mary whispered that she would take care of it. She was already awake anyway.  She had stayed in the living room with Rosie rather than coming back to the bedroom as she normally did, the spring dawn just starting to pierce through the curtains.

Once her daughter had dropped off to sleep again, Mary sat with her in her arms for a while longer, listening to the sounds of the neighbourhood gradually waking up – the clang of gates as people set off on an early commute, the street sweeper working its way slowly down the road, the distant sirens that were part of the background noise of living in London.

She placed Rosie in the Moses basket, drank a cup of tea and got down to work. Double-checked the time for which the taxi was booked, sent a quick email to the café down the road that was bringing the food later that day, re-stocked Rosie’s changing bag, gave her own dress a last-minute iron. Rosie’s gown for the christening was bought new; no family heirlooms to draw from on either side. Well, all traditions started off as something new, didn’t they? She hoped that perhaps they were beginning  one here.

Three hours later, they were in the cab on the way to the church, stopping en route to collect Molly. Mary couldn’t help but grin as she saw her friend totter from the front door to the car, waving away help from the taxi driver before clambering into the back with them.

“Hiya!” she said cheerfully, pulling down one of the fold-down seats behind the driver’s cab. “Lovely day for it!”

“Sorry about all this clutter,” Mary told her, gesturing to the collection of baby paraphernalia at their feet. “Just kick it out of the way. I include my husband in that, by the way."

She winked at Molly, and Molly smiled back.

“Thanks,” John replied. “Should I go and sit up front with the driver so you can take the piss in private?”

“Aahh, just teasing you, love,” Mary grinned at him. “Doesn’t Molly look nice?”

She saw Molly blush slightly, adjusting the skirt of her dress over her knees as she fastened her seatbelt. But she did look lovely – bright, sparky and uniquely Molly.

“Er, yeah. Nice…er…colours,” John offered.

“That’s why I go to John for style advice,” Mary smiled, quickly rolling her eyes. “But seriously, you look fab.”

“Thank you,” Molly smiled, her cheeks colouring again. “I…I wasn’t sure what to wear for a christening. It’s my first. You look lovely, too.”

“This is my ‘mother of the baby’ look,” Mary told her. “Sober enough for church - plus if Rosie wants to vomit on me at any point, it will probably just blend in.”

Rosie was asleep in her car seat, buckled in between John and herself, and Molly leaned across to get a peek at her.

“That’s not her christening dress, by the way,” Mary said. “That thing cost almost as much as my wedding dress, so I’m not putting her in it until the absolute last second. Don’t think Welsh lace would stand up to a hot wash.”

Molly smiled.

“She’s going to look beautiful,” she said. “It’s going to be a lovely day to look back on.”

Mary smiled and nodded in response, but realised that was something she herself hadn’t even considered. She had, she realised, been treating it like a milestone, something for her to strive towards and tick off.

“I’m texting Sherlock again,” John announced, seemingly to no-one in particular. “He hasn’t responded to the last three I sent.”

“He’ll be there,” Mary replied. John had been similarly wound up before the wedding, and she didn’t need to remind him that Sherlock had exceeded all expectations on that day (as well as setting a new standard for Best Man speeches).

“Yeah, but what if he’s disappeared off on a case – or worse?” John asked, hitting ‘send’ on his phone.

“He’s fine!” Mary said, catching Molly’s eye. “He’s doing really well at the moment. Even you said he’s been much less of a wanker recently.”

She saw Molly suppress a smile. Mary wondered whether her friend realised just how much this had to do with her.

“Besides, Martha’s there,” Mary continued. “She’ll probably have brought him a cup of tea and chased him out of his dressing gown hours ago.”

“He, um, he mentioned the christening yesterday,” Molly put in. Mary realised she and John must both have been looking at her questioningly, as Molly hurriedly added, “In the lab. He came by to check on some samples. So, I mean, he hasn’t forgotten.”

As her friend looked out of the window, Mary smiled to herself. Did even a day go by without Sherlock Holmes finding a way to cross paths with the woman he considered ‘his’ pathologist?

The taxi pulled up outside the entrance to the church, and they all clambered out. Mary could see some of the guests were already arriving, and as John assembled Rosie’s pram, she spotted Mrs Hudson hovering around the entrance. She gave a little wave when she spotted them.

“See?” John said, wrestling the car seat into position. “Not here.”

At that moment, Sherlock appeared from around the side of the church; he was chewing, which meant he’d snuck off for a cigarette and was now trying to disguise it with a mint. It was then that it occurred to Mary that maybe he was nervous, out of his comfort zone again. But yet here he was, putting himself out for them, for his goddaughter; John needed to have more faith.

“Hello!” Mrs Hudson trilled as she came towards them. “Let me have a look at the girl of the hour!”

While Mrs Hudson was peering into the pram at a now-awake Rosie, Mary looked over to Sherlock…whose gaze moved off his phone briefly and, as it did so, fixed momentarily on something behind her. She saw his eyes scan up and down before he blinked, swallowed, and returned to his phone. Mary glanced over her shoulder and smiled to herself; apparently, she wasn’t the only one who thought Molly looked nice.

“’Morning, Sherlock,” Mary said, brightly. He looked at her as though she might have caught him out. “How’s the godfather-to-be?”

“Busy,” he replied, as though the christening was a terrible inconvenience. “Graham sent me something this morning that is very promising. I take it he isn’t coming to this…thing?”

Mary mimed  _Graham?_  to John, who rolled his eyes and mouthed back  _Greg_.

“No, but he’s going to pop by later, at our place,” she told Sherlock.

“Hmm, shame,” Sherlock said. “Although, I might have it solved by then if Anderson learns how to use a computer and sends over the forensics report.”

John took a step closer to Sherlock.

“Can we put the investigation on hold for just an  _hour_ , Sherlock? Please?”

Mary could tell from her husband’s tone that he was a hair’s breadth away from a minor implosion. Sherlock pocketed his phone, but Mary wasn’t convinced it was a sign of acquiescence.

“And are you clear on what’s happening?” John asked, in a harsh whisper. “Have you looked at the order of service?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and then frowned, apparently in exasperation.

“Yes, John, I am familiar with the basic concept of a christening,” he sighed. “Heavenly father, Thanks be to God, reject the devil, renounce deceit and corruption of evil – etcetera, etcetera – several prayers, boring, boring, respond with ‘I do’, we all go and eat cake.”

“Nice summary,” John replied. “Although probably go with ‘I will’ rather than ‘I do’ – different type of service entirely, Sherlock. You might end up married to Mrs Hudson.”

Mary smirked, and could see Molly doing the same.

“He should be so lucky,” Mrs Hudson replied, slightly haughtily, as the vicar ushered them all through the side door and into the vestibule.

She and John were asked to wait so that the vicar could run through a few final details, and the godparents were instructed to take a seat in the front pew. Mary just had time to see Sherlock’s hand hover at the small of Molly’s back as they walked towards their seats; although he barely touched her, it still looked proprietorial. When they settled into their seats, she saw Sherlock’s eyes flick down to the point where his thigh was touching Molly’s, before looking straight ahead at some indeterminate point on the wall; almost immediately afterwards, Molly darted a glance across at him and seemed to smile to herself. Mary assumed they had no idea how obvious their mutual infatuation was becoming.

“He’ll have that bloody phone out within two minutes,” John hissed into her ear. “He can’t help himself.”

“Oh, shush,” Mary replied in a whisper. “He’s sandwiched between the two women in the world who have him wrapped around their little fingers. He’ll behave.”

John looked at her doubtfully, but she saw his features relax a little. Mary adjusted Rosie in her arms and took his hand, leading him to the seats reserved for parents. The vicar nodded in their direction, and then to the organist. As the first hymn started to play, Mary leaned across and quickly kissed John’s cheek; he looked at her in surprise, then smiled lopsidedly.

She glanced down the pew at their friends, just in time to see Molly catch Sherlock with his phone. Fixing him with a reproachful look, Molly then took hold of the hand that held the phone and folded her own around it, trapping the phone between their palms. She then placed their joined hands on her knee, where the hem of her dress met her tights. Sherlock looked at her with a mixture of horror, grudging admiration and something else Mary couldn’t quite place, but which she strongly suspected was barely suppressed arousal.  But Molly was staring intently at the vicar as he delivered his opening address, her lips pursed, clearly satisfied that she’d won this round.

Mary had to stifle a laugh at she looked down at her daughter. For all of the qualities she’d attributed to her friend – her strength, intelligence, strong moral code – she’d almost overlooked the fact that having Molly Hooper for a godmother was also going to be a lot of fun. 

0000000

 

A few hours later, Mary was looking for her daughter. Molly had offered to change Rosie, realising that Mary was caught up in conversation with other christening guests, but that was almost twenty minutes ago. Rosie's afternoon nappies could be pretty horrendous sometimes, but unless a full-scale bath and change of clothes was required, she would usually be done by now.

"Have you seen Sherlock?" John asked, as Mary passed him on the way to the bedroom. "He's been on at me since the service to look at something Lestrade sent him, but now he's disappeared.”

Mary shook her head. It occurred to her that she hadn't seen him for a while either.

"He's probably left," John sighed. "After having his full of free food, of course."

Mary grinned.

"Ah, well, never mind, love," she replied. "You're free to go off and get quietly pissed."

As she approached the door, she heard a soft voice - Molly's, clearly talking to Rosie. She couldn't make out the words, but there was a soothing sing-song quality - not full-on baby-talk, but reassuring, melodic.

"Hey, Molls, is everything okay?" Mary asked, as she entered the room.

The scene that greeted her was not what she expected. Rosie lay on her changing mat in her vest, working her limbs excitedly, while Molly sat on the floor on one side of her - and Sherlock sat on the bed on the other side.

Both adults looked up, suddenly self-conscious. Mary almost had to bite her lip, it was so endearing.

"We, er, we were just having some time out," Molly explained.

"Too many people," Sherlock added quickly. "Rosie seemed overwhelmed."

"I bet," Mary smiled, knowing full well her four-month old daughter wasn't the only one. She wondered whether Sherlock had followed Molly into the room, or whether she’d noticed his inevitable discomfort and invited him along.

"Uncle Sherlock changed his first nappy," Molly said, grinning.

"Did he really?" Mary said, casually folding her arms and looking across to Sherlock. "And I assumed I was going to have to steal Uncle Sherlock’s phone again to make that happen. Obviously, Aunty Molly has something I don't."

Molly looked up at her.

“Aunty Molly has a very interesting post-mortem schedule tomorrow, which Uncle Sherlock is very keen to be allowed to sit in on,” Molly said.

Mary chuckled.  

“Okay, so marks out of ten?” she asked.

Molly cocked her head to one side, as though considering her verdict. It didn’t escape Mary’s notice that Sherlock was eyeing her closely – the man took was so competitive it was laughable.  

“A very respectable seven,” Molly said eventually, a teasing glint in her eye.

“Seven!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Kindly elaborate.”

“You put the nappy on backwards the first time,” Molly replied simply. “And you mucked up the poppers on the vest.”

Sherlock narrowed his gaze at her, but there was some kind of weird eye-language going on between them that Mary couldn’t fail to notice.

“But I  _did_  apply the barrier cream without prompting,” he replied, mounting a defence. “It’s a good thing that infants don’t form long-term memories until around the age of three – otherwise, I don’t think Rosamund and I could look each other in the eye in future years.”

Mary looked down at Rosie, amazingly contented considering it was nearly three hours since she’d had a feed. Her godparents obviously made for a diverting pair.

“Soooo,” Mary began, positioning her features into a neutral expression. “Is ‘time out’ finished now…or do you need a little longer?”

She saw Molly and Sherlock lock eyes for a moment, and in Sherlock’s face she detected a combination of reluctant acceptance and definite disappointment. If they needed Rosie’s presence as an excuse for…whatever, Mary honestly didn’t mind, but-

“I’m starving!” Molly said brightly. “Any of those little pizza things left?”

She bent to kiss Rosie’s forehead before springing to her feet – a little  _too_  quickly, Mary thought – and heading for the door. This left Sherlock looking uncertain and slightly fidgety on the edge of the bed, his long fingers drumming on the duvet beside him.

Mary smirked to herself, then cleared her throat softly.

“You can, erm, go with her if you like,” she told him, with a flick of her head. “Otherwise I might make you do bath-time, and we both know you’re not ready for  _that_  yet.”

Mustering as much dignity as was possible for a man whose current emotional turmoil was pulsing from his body like a radio signal, Sherlock drew himself up to his full height and strode – a little  _too_  leisurely, Mary thought – in the direction of the party.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

“I think I want to ask her properly.”

It was the night of Rosie’s christening, and they were lying in bed awake. Or Mary was awake at least; John had worked his way through more bottles of craft beer than he was admitting to, and kept dropping off to sleep in the middle of the conversation. He was bad enough for doing that when he was sober.

Outside of their bedroom, there was still the messy aftermath of the reception to sort out; a kitchen counter covered in dirty crockery, and a living room scattered with wrapping paper and abandoned glasses. Molly - and, seemingly by extension, Sherlock - had stayed behind to pick out and discard the leftover food scraps, but Mary had chased them out of the flat eventually, anxious not to keep them too long.

“Ask who what again?” John muttered.

“Molly. About the guardianship.”

“Were Molly and Sherlock holding hands in the church?” John replied, twisting around to face her and suddenly sounding more awake. “Mrs Hudson mentioned it. Said something about him groping her leg, too.”

Mary smirked in the darkness.

“Better than him playing with his phone, isn’t it?”

“Not really,” John replied. “Maybe I should talk to him.”

“About what?”

“About whatever he’s playing at. He’s going to end up giving Molly the wrong idea, and the idiot won’t even know he’s doing it.”

“They’re grown-ups,” Mary replied, smiling. “Molly knows how to handle Sherlock - she’s been doing it long enough. Anyway, we were talking about the guardianship.”

John made a ‘humph’ sound, as though he’d hoped they’d moved away from this topic.

“I want to do this,” Mary continued. “For Rosie. You know what the alternative would be if…if something happened.”

John sighed, resting a hand on his forehead.

“I know, and yeah, I’m not arguing - I agree it makes sense,” he said.

When they changed their wills after Rosie was born, the solicitor had asked about legal guardianship, and she had stalled on the subject. Said they’d come back to her. Mary knew that unless they stated otherwise, were something to happen to both her and John, Rosie would be placed in the custody of John’s parents – something he said he wouldn’t wish on anyone. His sister Harry meant well, but she’d never been sober for more than a three-month stretch, so that was out of the question.

“So you’re okay if I speak to Molly?”

“It’s a formality, Mary; a box we have to tick as responsible parents. I’m sure most people probably don’t even mention it to the people they’ve nominated.”

“It just feels polite to ask, you know?” Mary continued. “It’s not like the odd evening of babysitting or occasional help with a childcare emergency.”

“It’s not going to happen!” John exclaimed suddenly, the volume of his voice taking her by surprise. He immediately muttered an apology, seemed to compose himself.

“I know…you’re worried. I know…after everything that’s happened. But we’re in the clear, Mary, it’s behind us now. Yeah, Rosie should have a legal guardian like any other child because, I guess, like anyone, we could both get hit by a bus tomorrow – but you don’t have to act as though it’s anything more than that.”

Mary listened to his words, and realised just how big the gulf between them was. Not emotionally or physically, but in their future outlook, in their understanding of their current situation. John didn’t go through life looking over his shoulder, wasn’t waiting for the phone call or the unexpected confrontation that felt more like a ‘when’ than an ‘if’. 

“I  _have_  to act like that,” she replied, hoping that if her voice was calm, his would remain so too. “Because we’re not like everyone else, John. You might have forgiven me for everything in my past, but there are plenty out there who haven’t, and who would think nothing of leaving Rosie without a mother.”

“Mary-”

“And you! You don’t exactly have a normal job either,” she continued, the effort to maintain a calm tone failing completely. “How many times have you nearly died because of your work with Sherlock? Are you telling me you’ll give all that up and sit behind a GP’s desk all day, every day? I know you can’t – the boredom would slowly destroy you, because you would know something else was out there. You’re drawn to danger, and you can’t help that. But don’t lie there and tell me not to worry, that this is all just a tick-box exercise, because what if it isn’t?”

She felt him shift closer in the bed, his hand coming up to rest on the top of her arm. She wanted to pull away, but couldn’t bring herself. More than ever, they needed to close ranks, to be one unit.

John placed a kiss on the bridge of her nose.

“Talk to Molly,” he whispered. “Square it with her if it makes you feel better. Then we’ll see the solicitor next week, make it all official.”

The effort to stop the tears falling prevented her from replying, but she nodded, thanking him, even if he was just placating her. She needed to see it in ink and paper, but the arrangement between friends was just as important – this was her daughter they were talking about.

00000000

Mary arrived early, hoping it wouldn’t be an inconvenience. She would be amazed if Rosie had slept beyond 6am, something she had warned Molly about, but which Molly took in her stride – she was used to getting up at weird times for different shifts, she pointed out.

It was Rosie’s first night away, a momentous occasion in any child’s – and parent’s –life. The occasion was the third anniversary of when she and John first met; Mary wasn’t sure why they still marked this (now that they had a wedding anniversary to observe, too), but it fell at a convenient time anyway. And John had been all too happy for them to have a night off – and out – together.

And she  _had_  been able to relax to a point. Dinner had been lovely, and it had been a good idea to go and see a band rather than a film – more lively, more distracting, even if John did complain that his ears were still ringing. They hadn’t danced since their wedding, and it had been nice to hold each other again like that, to get slightly drunk and give each other clumsy kisses and pinch John’s bum in the middle of the dancefloor. So she now had a slight hangover, but what the hell.

She’d been restrained with checking in, restricting herself to one text around Rosie’s bedtime, and another when she figured Molly might also be going to bed. All fine, it seemed.

Molly opened the front door fully dressed, which was more than Mary often managed by 9am. She was carrying a tea towel, and beckoned her inside.

“You didn’t have to come so early,” Molly told her. “You could have had a proper lie-in.”

“That’s where John is,” Mary replied with a smile.

“Good night?”

“Really lovely, yeah, thank you,” she said, listening out for sounds of her daughter and hearing what must have been muffled noise from the TV.  “What about you? Was she okay?”

Molly nodded enthusiastically.

“Mmm, yeah, absolutely fine,” she told her. “I mean, I think she missed you – my cuddles aren’t the same – but we muddled through. Bath-time was a lot of fun.”

“Oh God, I forgot to pass on the baby bath!”

“It’s fine,” Molly replied with a dismissive wave. “We did it in the kitchen sink – Rosie loved it. Straight in with the dishes and pans.”

There was a slight flustered quality to Molly’s voice that Mary couldn’t unpick.

“I’m kidding about the dishes and pans,” Molly added, unnecessarily, and Mary gave her a reassuring smile.

She couldn’t wait to set eyes on her daughter again, so it was with some degree of surprise (although perhaps not as much as she would have thought) that the first sight she saw in the living room was Sherlock. Rosie was on the floor in front of him, kicking away underneath her baby gym; at the sight of Mary, she started to squawk, and Mary got down on the floor to pick her up.  

“Good morning, Mary,” he said, coffee mug in hand. “Your face is the colour of parchment.”

“Wow, thanks, Sherlock,” Mary replied. She’d actually thought she looked okay when she left the flat, all things considered. “Why are you here so early?”

“I, er…”

Ohhhhh. Not early at all. Clearly Rosie wasn’t the only one who’d had a sleepover.

“It was nice to have an extra pair of hands,” Molly chipped in quickly, although the shade her face then turned suggested she realised how that might have sounded. Or perhaps how grounded in actuality it was. Mary wasn’t yet sure which.

“Yeah!” Mary replied, beaming back at her. “As long as those hands are helpful.”

Sherlock looked up at her disdainfully from the sofa.

“Yeah, well, teamwork,” Molly replied, moving around the living room and gathering up some of Rosie’s things. “I’ll just get the bag from the spare room.”

Well, that answered Mary’s unspoken question. If Rosie had been in the travel cot in the spare room, it seemed questionable that Sherlock would have been in the spare room with her. Maybe he’d slept on the sofa, but would he really traipse halfway across London – away from his own bed – just to crash in Molly’s lounge? John would probably blow a gasket over this.

Mary caught Sherlock’s eye and grinned, aware of how much that kind of ambiguous eye-contact unnerved him. She waggled her eyebrows; he scowled in response. She wondered how long it would be until he cracked.

They weren’t shagging – not yet, anyway. She would know – Sherlock had a terrible poker face and would be obvious even to the casual observer (or John). So, was it a stick-to-your-side-of-the-bed-absolutely-no-touching arrangement, or was there cuddling involved? Mary had Sherlock down as a snuggler – not like John, who would retreat to his side of the bed after goodnight kisses, claiming he couldn’t get comfortable otherwise. Not that Mary was bothered – she liked her own space, too (she’d certainly grown accustomed to that over the years), and anyway, John gave off an oppressive amount of body heat.

“Got it!” Molly announced, as she came back into the room with the bag. “Oh, are you going?”

Sherlock had stood up and was buttoning his jacket, tucking his phone into his inside pocket.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “I am fairly certain that Mary has something significant that she wishes to ask you, for which she would prefer that I wasn’t present.”

Mary felt her eyebrows rise spontaneously. All of that time she thought she was making him uncomfortable, he was actually busy deducing her – correctly, as it turned out. The tosser.

“Oh,” Molly said again. “Well, okay.”

There was a weird moment when the two of them seemed to be figuring out departure etiquette. Sherlock didn’t look like a man expecting a goodbye kiss, but the way he lingered on the spot made Mary realise he probably wanted to thank Molly for…something. Playing house with him, maybe.

Mary walked Rosie over to the sofa so that they could pet Toby, and by the time she looked up again, Sherlock was gone.

“So,” Molly said, perching on the other arm of the sofa. “What was it you wanted to ask me?”

Mary could have cursed Sherlock for creating a build-up like that, but no dodging the issue now.

“It’s just something John and I have been thinking about,” she began. “And you know that I have no family and that his aren’t really in the picture and…well, we wanted to ask whether we can name you in our will as Rosie’s legal guardian if, you know, anything should happen to both of us.”

She had thought about the possible ways Molly might react to this, but the look on her face was one that she hadn’t anticipated. She was looking at her knees, her lips pinched together.

“If anything should happen to both of you,” she repeated, almost in a whisper.

Mary suddenly wondered whether she’d made a misjudgment, and felt herself floundering for something to say next.

“It’s a box-ticking thing, really,” she heard herself say. “You know, just so we don’t look like really negligent parents. And so there’s no chance that Rosie could end up with John’s parents.”

Again,  there was a pause. Molly picked an invisible thread from her trousers, inhaled deeply.

“You know that I love Rosie,” she began. “So this isn’t about that. And I love you and John, too. But…I need to ask…”

Mary shifted Rosie onto her other knee, allowed her to gum her knuckle. She nodded for Molly to continue, a slight feeling of dread pooling in the pit of her stomach.

“You haven’t always been a nurse, have you?” Molly ventured, looking up to catch her eye, ensuring there was no escape.

“What do you mean?”

It was a stalling tactic, no doubt about it.

Molly let out a huff of breath.

“I’m…I’m not stupid. I know there’s something…it always felt like there was something…off…not quite right. It’s always been there. But, well, we became friends and I tried not to think about it too much – it felt like it was something that wasn’t any of my business, anyway.”

“Molly, there’s nothing…”

Mary knew it was hopeless.

“You don’t…” – Molly shook her head – “I don’t want you to lie to me anymore. No more lies…please. I can’t stand it. I don’t know what it is, but if there’s an actual, real chance that I might end up taking care of your daughter, I feel like I have the right to know the truth.”

Mary couldn’t respond, hadn’t prepared for this.

“So, what were you?” Molly continued, her jaw set. “An undercover police officer? Secret service? Were you in witness protection?”

“I can’t…”

“ _Why_  can’t you?”

Mary sighed, felt her breath catch halfway through it, keenly aware that her baby daughter was right there.

“Because…because it’s bigger than  _all_  of those things,” she blurted finally, before collecting herself a little. “You’re right, Molly; this isn’t who I’ve always been. But I can’t…what I did in my past is beyond classified; it puts  _everyone_  at risk.”

Molly’s brow furrowed, her eyes on her knees.

“Does John know?”

Mary nodded, swallowed.

“Yes. He knows.”

“Has he always known?”

“Not until after we were married,” she said, her voice hoarse, hating having to allow that memory to surface.

Molly gave a little nod, more to herself.

“You weren’t talking. John was back living with Sherlock.”

Mary wasn’t sure she was supposed to reply to that; what was there to say?

Molly cleared her throat, pursed her lips as though composing herself.

“You fed me some stupid line about past relationships, something that had upset John,” she said, throwing Mary’s story back at her. “God! I tried to talk to him, tried to get  _him_  to talk to  _you_ …”

“Because you’re my friend,” Mary nodded, trying to soften her voice. Rosie was getting fidgety, picking up on the anxiety.

A small, strangled laugh came out of Molly.

“You let me believe a lie,” she said, picking at the skin at the side of her fingernail. “What about Sherlock? Does he know?”

That laugh again.

“Of course he does,” Molly completed, shaking her head.

Mary desperately wanted to bridge the physical distance between them, to lay a hand on Molly’s arm, but she suddenly felt as though she’d lost the right.

“Don’t be angry at him for not telling you,” she said instead. “He feels the same way I do.”

“Which is what?” Molly demanded, staring her down.

Mary closed her eyes for a second, tried to summon the words.

“Neither of us, none of us – John, too – want your life to be endangered,” she began. “Believe me, Molly, it’s far, far safer for you to know nothing. There is no need for you to be dragged into this…into the repercussions of my past.”

She had been warned, too many years ago to recall, that she would have to accept a life without friendships. What had she been thinking, trying to go against that? What made her so different?

Rosie was starting to cry now, resisting the rocking action that was supposed to soothe her, but which was actually, probably, a bit too frantic. She stroked a hand over Rosie’s hair, placed a kiss on the top of her head.

“If that was the whole truth,” Molly replied. “why do I feel like you see me as somehow less-than? To be honest, I might have expected that from your husband and, I don’t know, sometimes I could believe it of Sherlock, too. But you’re my…I thought of you as my best friend…”

Jesus – that one hit her hard. How could it not?

“I feel the same way,” she said, hoping to God Molly could hear the truth of it. “Molly, you’re the only person aside from John and Sherlock who I feel I can be myself around.”

Molly snorted.

“But you weren’t really yourself, were you? Not really.”

Mary blinked. Tears were threatening to breach the surface – and most would have assumed Molly would be the one to cry first.

Molly huffed out another breath.

“If this is about trust-”

“It isn’t.”

“If this is about trust,” Molly insisted. “can we please just back up for a minute? I pretended Sherlock was  _dead_  for two years. Two years, two bloody years; just me, his vampire of a brother, his parents who I never saw, and a handful of homeless people whose names I didn’t even know. I pretended to mourn for him, I acted like I was upset in front of colleagues – for God’s sake, I lied to John for all that time! Something – by the way – that I’m not sure he’s ever properly forgiven me for, even though he’s forgiven Sherlock. And I’m not sure if anyone realised that there were actually a few things at stake for me, too – my entire career, for one thing. I faked a death certificate, I deliberately misidentified a body – one, let’s remember, that I aided and abetted some complete strangers to throw out of a window. And then, when Sherlock came back, there was the small matter of me looking professionally incompetent – there was nearly an enquiry about the body I misidentified. But I don’t regret it, I will never regret helping Sherlock when he asked for it – and I would have done the same for you.”

Rosie was really crying now, balling her little fists into her eyes, her mouth; burying her snot-streaked face into Mary’s blouse.

“I know you would, Molly,” Mary finally replied. “But you’ve done enough.”

“I know Sherlock killed Charles Magnussen,” Molly almost blurted. Clearly she was just getting started, and these were her opening arguments. “And I would never, ever tell anyone.”

Mary shook her head.

“Sherlock shouldn’t have told you that.”

“He didn’t,” Molly replied, with a note of almost-defiance in her voice. “It wasn’t difficult to work out. Between Magnussen’s death being all over the news, and getting a really weird text from Sherlock that same night...it was obvious.”

She didn’t elaborate (had Sherlock contacted her to try to say goodbye?) But the implication in Molly’s words wereclear: _I can live with what he did, and I can do the same for you._

But she shouldn’t have to.

Or was it something else? Out of nowhere, Mary felt a dawning realisation, another possible reason for why she needed to keep this from Molly. Not just her physical safety, that she needed her to be there for Rosie – but that maybe some unreasonable part of her wanted Rosie’s guardian to be uncorrupted by all of this, to be someone capable of a higher moral standard. Perhaps Molly felt that she knew the worst of it, but it was barely a scratch on the surface. For a split second, Mary considered telling her about the shooting in Magnussen’s office, just coming out with it right there and then - that  _she_  had been the one to put a bullet in the chest of the man Molly loved. (Because, let’s face it, Molly’s feelings in that regard were as bloody transparent as Sherlock’s, even if she was – understandably – trying to guard her heart.) How would Molly react to that? Would it begin to convey to her how serious this was, how much of a shadow AGRA cast? One thing was certain, though - she would lose her friend instantly.

 “What Sherlock did…” Mary began, eventually. “I did things that were worse.”

Rosie was beginning to get hysterical; she had to stop this. She stood up, started pacing and bouncing.

 “Was it because of you?” Molly asked. “What Sherlock did…He would never do that for himself, but he protects the people he cares about, so did he do it for you?”

Mary picked up a soft toy, which Rosie immediately batted away in fury.

“Yes,” she said, nodding. “For John, for Rosie – for all of us. Magnussen wouldn’t stop until he destroyed us.”

Molly folded her arms.

“But you’re not going to tell me why. What Magnussen had on you.”

Mary didn’t speak. It was clear that Molly wasn’t asking; she said the words with a bitter resignation. Without making eye contact, Molly left the room. Mary heard her moving things around in the kitchen – cupboard doors, the fridge being opened and closed – and then Molly was back, handing her a bottle of milk, minimising all eye contact. Mary took the bottle gratefully, shifting Rosie while she shushed her and found a comfortable place on the sofa.

“You’re asking me to do this for you…” Molly began again, worrying a loose thread on the cuff of her jumper. “But…I don’t see you minimising the risk. Not you or John.”

“What do you mean?”

“You follow Sherlock into danger, both of you – sometimes together – but…doesn’t Rosie change that? I mean, you must think, sometimes, ‘What if one of us doesn’t come back? What if neither of us does?’ Don’t you?”

Molly’s voice trailed off, and she hugged her arms around her chest.

“You think we’re being selfish,” Mary said, nodding mechanically.

She had never thought of it that way, but as tears pricked the corners of her eyes, she knew Molly had a point. Her input and expertise was valued by Sherlock just as much as John’s, and Mary had never felt a need to step back – why should  _she_  be the one to step back? She had lived in a man’s world for all of her adult life, hooked on the adrenaline high of the life she had chosen, and she never had any intention of conforming to any kind of typical wife-and-mother role. Not even when she fell in love with John – and she’d had to wait until she felt secure in that before she committed to a life with him.

Molly gave a slow shrug in response.

“I…I’m not trying to tell you what to do,” she said, eventually. “I would never do that. But I just…I can’t think of anything – not a single thing – that could be important enough to risk never seeing Rosie again. I just can’t.”

The way she said it was almost like a plea:  _tell me, make me understand_. But how could she possibly answer that now that suddenly, in the clear light of day, it seemed indefensible?

Before she could say anything, she heard Molly let out a breath.

“I’m, um, I’m going to go out for a bit,” she said, a small gesturing nod towards the door. “You can get Rosie sorted – she’ll probably need a change before you go.”

“Molly…”

“There’s a spare key hanging in the cupboard under the stairs,” she pushed on. “Just post it back through the door when you leave.”

With every atom of her body, Mary longed to just grab her friend and haul her into a hug – just  _something_  to reduce the chasm between them – but she knew that she no longer had the right. She had to let Molly go.

For a second, Molly looked at her, finally making eye contact, but whatever it was she thought she saw in Mary’s face made her flinch away.

“Okay,” Mary said softly. “I will.”

Molly swallowed, gave a small nod, and then walked out of the room. Seconds later – barely time enough to collect a coat and bag – Mary heard the sound of the front door being firmly closed.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this chapter ended up having a much higher word-count than intended - hope you won't mind the long read!

It was hard to get the conversation out of her head, even two days later. Now she knew how Sherlock felt, being on the receiving end of Molly Hooper’s righteous anger.  _He_  had been forgiven, but then wouldn’t Sherlock always be forgiven? Besides, Mary grudgingly acknowledged, although he had let her down, he had never fundamentally lied to Molly about who he was – or if not lied, conveniently omitted the truth. Molly had never really asked questions about her past, her family, so actual, direct deception had never really been necessary. Perhaps that’s what made it feel palatable.

She had told John, of course. He mostly seemed relieved that she hadn’t revealed anything of substance to Molly, reiterating their shared belief that the fewer people knew about AGRA the safer everyone would be. She wasn’t sure, though, that he appreciated the fallout, what had been sacrificed in return.  _It would be fine_ , he had said, sitting beside her on the edge of the bed that night –  _Molly would come around._   _She did the right thing, for everyone._

But it felt shit.

She had given up enough in her life – sometimes willingly, often out of duty – and it didn’t seem much to ask to be allowed to hold onto her one, real female friendship. It made her realise how easy it had been to maintain surface-friendships, the kind that don’t go beyond the shallowest of small-talk and  _yeah, let’s have coffee_ , and  _we’ll definitely have a night out soon_. She was good at cultivating friendships, she knew that. In her line of work, she’d had to be able to earn trust fast, to develop a persona that would endear her, and she’d found those skills were transferrable. Plus, she was a laugh; she knew how to have a good time (no prizes for guessing how she bonded with Janine, the woman who would become her bridesmaid).

Developing a friendship with Molly had been more gradual, had happened organically as they ended up spending more time together. John had vaguely mentioned her a few times during the time they were dating, but the first time Molly really came to her attention was the night Sherlock returned from the dead, the night she first met her husband’s best friend. Suddenly, Mary very much wanted to meet the woman who had helped the great consulting detective fake his own death.

And the delightful thing was, Molly was nothing like she expected.

But on the day that she and John dragged Sherlock to the path lab for a drug test, Mary realised exactly  _why_  Sherlock had trusted her – and that appearances could indeed be very deceiving. In short, Molly Hooper was brilliant – and from that point, their friendship really blossomed.

“What do you think, Rosie?” Mary asked, sitting cross-legged in front of her daughter’s Bumbo seat. “Shall we go to the park? Yeah, I know, we’ve been there twice already this week, and I can’t really be arsed with it either, but there’ll probably be loads of dogs for you to point at, if that helps.”

Rosie looked back at her from underneath a furrowed brow; she was deep in concentration, chewing on Sophie-the-bloody-Giraffe.

“And sod it, we’ll go to the café, too, even if they do charge nearly four quid for a latte,” Mary added.

John had gone out with Sherlock that morning, summoned to Baker Street over something to do with a scam at a high-end restaurant. It was private work, and therefore probably came with a decent kick-back attached (although Sherlock never seemed to give any thought to where the next paycheque was coming from – bloody toff). Sweetheart that he was, John had asked whether she wanted to go instead – Sherlock had made it quite clear that they were interchangeable on this one – but she found herself playing the sainted wife role:  _You go, love – we’ll be fine._

She loved spending time with Rosie, but extended periods alone with a little one could be an isolating experience – and made her vulnerable to dogged attacks from her conscience. And while out at the shops that morning, she had started to feel as though she was being watched; kept seeing the same faces over and over, turning away from her, suddenly reaching for their phones or ducking their heads when she challenged them with a stare. She hadn’t felt this paranoid in a long time.

Then the doorbell rang.

“Who’s that, then?” she said to Rosie, who had looked up at the sound of the chime. Nobody ever called unexpectedly, unless they were canvassing before an election or offering to clean windows. There was a tyre-wrench just inside the front door, very deliberately.

But when she opened the door, it was Molly.

“Hi,” she said, with a tentative smile. “I…I was heading home, and I took a chance you might be in.”

“We were just heading to the park,” Mary replied, unsure why she said that.  

“Oh,” Molly replied. “Well, don’t worry about it. I was just returning this…I thought Rosie might be missing it.”

She held out the cuddly toy that had been to stay the night with Rosie. Mary took it, thanking her.

“And…I wanted to…” Molly continued, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. “I wanted to tell you that I’ll do it.”

“Do what?”

“I’ll be Rosie’s legal guardian,” Molly said. “I-if you still want that, I mean.”

Mary felt a sudden rush of lightness course through her, felt a smile begin to take over her face. But Molly wasn’t smiling, not yet, so Mary rallied herself, held it back.

“Will you come inside?” she asked.

There was a pause as Molly’s gaze darted up the street and then came back to rest on her. She nodded quickly.

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

 

00000000000000

A few minutes later, they were sitting on opposite sides of the coffee table, Rosie between them, now on her tummy on the patchwork blanket Molly had bought as a christening present. Molly had declined the offer of a cup of tea, and Mary couldn’t help but notice that she hadn’t taken off her coat. But she was watching Rosie, smiling, and Mary could tell that her friend was itching to get down on the floor with her goddaughter – that’s just how she was. But something held her back.

“So, um,” Mary began, twisting at the ring on her finger. “What made you change your mind?”

Molly suddenly looked up, a flicker of a frown passing over her face.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it,” she replied, sound almost surprised. “But I needed time…to think about what it meant. And also, to figure out why I reacted the way I did.”

Mary nodded.

“You said some things that probably needed to be said.”

But Molly looked unconvinced, anguished even.

“I don’t know…maybe,” she replied. “But whatever I was feeling about you, about what I felt you and John weren’t telling me – I shouldn’t have put that before Rosie. And I shouldn’t have questioned you over Rosie, either – I had no right to accuse you of not putting her first. I know you both love her more than anything, and I’m not a parent, and I really don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Mary shook her head, wishing in some ways that Molly wasn’t trying to backtrack; that she wasn’t trying to devalue her experience.

“You know a lot more than you give yourself credit for.”

Molly gave a small nod, but didn’t look up when she spoke again.

“But there...I’m guessing there are some things that I won’t ever know. Right?

Mary watched Rosie wriggling on the blanket, making first attempts at pushing herself up on her elbows. Time seemed to be moving so quickly.

“I know I’m asking a lot,” she replied, immediately feeling the inadequacy of that statement.

She heard Molly let out a sigh.

“I…I get that it’s for my own good,” she began. “And I know I should probably be grateful for that. I _am_ grateful in a way. But I can’t help it…when it feels as though your friend doesn’t trust you, it hurts. It hurts like hell.”

Her voice trailed off. Mary was about to try to reiterate that it wasn’t a case of trust or lack of it -  because, John aside, there really was nobody she trusted more – when Molly began speaking again.

“But I’ll work with it,” she said, setting her hands flat on her knees. “ _We’ll_ work with it. I’m going to have swallow my stupid bloody pride and accept that this…this isn’t perfect…because I don’t want to lose this…lose you.”  
  
Mary said her swallow hard.

“Our friendship…it feels real, it feels truthful, despite whatever other shit is going on.”

She wished Molly would look at her, tried to urge her to look into her face.

“It _is_ real, Molls,” she said, firmly. “Please trust me on that.”

Again, Molly sighed, keeping her eyes on Rosie.

“Yeah. I do,” she nodded, almost with resignation. “And I know I’m going to have to trust that you…that the choices you make, you have your reasons. And that you’re making the best choices you can.”

Mary couldn’t bring herself to tell Molly that she wasn’t sure anymore, that these last couple of days had made her start to question everything. 

“And I realised,” Molly continued, toying with one of the large buttons on her coat. “That even if you can’t tell me everything, it doesn’t mean I can’t…be there for you. Having to keep things secret, having to pretend to people around you – I mean, I get that, I’ve lived through that. And I know how lonely it is, how…it makes you feel like a ghost of yourself.  I don’t want that for you, not if it doesn’t have to be that way, so…I’m here. And if the past is a no-go area for us…maybe it’ll be okay if we just concentrate on the future?”

This time Molly looked up, sought her gaze. It took a moment for Mary to realise what she was saying – and when she did, it came as the sweetest feeling of relief.

“Yes,” she replied, blinking as she felt tears beginning to well. “God, yes! That would be…that would be bloody wonderful. If you’re sure?”

Molly smiled, nodding.

Before she knew it, Mary was across the room and pulling Molly into a hug. It had clearly taken Molly by surprise too, as Mary heard a quiet ‘oof’ as they collided, before Molly began to reciprocate the embrace, giggling at the clumsiness of it all.

“I want you to promise me something,” Molly whispered, as they continued to hold each other. “That if there’s ever anything you need – whether it’s for you or for Rosie – you’ll come and ask me. I…I’m not going to judge or question or…just _please_ , ask me.”

Mary nodded, swallowing, swiping at her cheeks.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice suddenly thick with emotion.

They separated, and Molly instantly made a beeline for the blanket, scooping up Rosie and resting her on her hip.

“Rosie needs to join the sisterhood,” Molly grinned, using her other arm to pull Mary into another quick hug.

“You know you can do the same, right?” Mary asked, watching as Molly pulled a face at a captivated Rosie. “Come to me if you need anything?”

This elicited a short laugh from her friend.

“Like what?” she said. “Like if I think I’m in danger of becoming a crazy cat lady who stays in every night and knits tiny bonnets for my menagerie of strays?”

Mary chuckled.

“I was thinking more if a certain consulting wanker gives you any hassle,” she replied. “I may not be able to tell you much about my past, Molls, but suffice to say I’ve got skills.”  

Molly laughed, planting a kiss on the top of Rosie’s head.

“Not worried about that,” she replied, an eyebrow raised. “I’ve got a few skills of my own, too.”

Mary wasn’t sure whether this was a reference to womanly wiles or her ability to wield a carefully-placed scalpel, but it was good to have a broad arsenal.

“Look, I was going to suggest you come to the park with us,” Mary said. “But I’m revising the plan a bit. Quick walk through the park, finish up at the pub on the other side. What do you say?”

Molly looked up, clearly checking she wasn’t hearing things.

“What, seriously?”

“Yes, seriously,” Mary nodded, solemnly. “You and I are taking my four-month old daughter to the pub. And sod it, I’m going to have a half, too – although not a word to John, he’ll just get preachy.”

Molly laughed, Rosie mesmerised by the movements of her godmother’s face.

“What d’you say, Rosie?” Molly grinned, touching a finger to her goddaughter’s noise. “Sound like a plan?”

000000000000

They had been back less than ten minutes when the front door opened and John barrelled into the living room, still engaged in heated conversation with Sherlock, who was close behind him. Sherlock immediately started to tug at his scarf and coat, casting both of them inelegantly onto the coat hooks and huffing dramatically behind his friend.

 “…there are consequences, Sherlock. My daughter will learn that quicker than you,” Mary heard from her husband.

“My actions were not the problem here, John,” Sherlock replied, testily. “The problem – and this is applicable to a good ninety-five per cent of the cases we work – is that the majority of human beings are completely mindless cretins.”

“Hi!” Mary said brightly, from her position on the sofa next to Molly.

Both men looked up as though amazed that someone else would be in the room. Mary saw John shoot her a questioning look, his eyes darting briefly to Molly. She ignored it.

“Good case?” she asked instead.

Sherlock’s dark look conveyed his opinion of the day.

“Corporate espionage,” he said. “Boring. They weren’t even trying.”

“But lucrative,” John put in, grinning. “I won’t have to go and work the street corner after all.”

“Probably a good thing, love,” Mary replied. “Not sure what the trade is like in Stoke Newington for forty-three-year old men in plaid shirts and M&S cords.”

She saw Sherlock’s face pull into a grimace of disgust, and heard Molly giggle.

“Molly’s here,” Mary said, with a jerk of her head. Honestly, neither of them seemed to have a scrap of manners between them.

Molly offered them both a wave. Sherlock made some sort of grunt in reply which, Mary was sure, was identical to the noise he probably made when he was fourteen and required to be gracious.

“Where’s Rosie?” John asked.

“Asleep,” Mary replied. “Took her to the park. Fresh air, you know.”

She winked at Molly.

“Why’s Curly here?” Mary added.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her.

“Well, that’s the other bit of good news,” John said, coming to sit on the arm of the sofa beside her. “Sherlock’s babysitting tonight.”

She must have heard _that_ wrong.

“The owner of the restaurant was so grateful for our services that he offered us a meal on the house,” John continued. “Only Sherlock felt the need to tell him that his wife was having an affair with the sous chef, so _his_ offer of a free meal was withdrawn.”

“Serious?” Mary asked.

“Uh-huh,” John confirmed. “Seven-course tasting menu and a bottle of wine. Usually takes six weeks to get a table.”

“And you’re really babysitting?” she asked of Sherlock, who was busy removing his jacket with a weary air of resignation. This didn’t seem like an entirely sensible idea, but honestly, when were she and John going to get another chance? (He was still complaining about the expense of the place he booked for the night he planned to propose, including the fact that they didn’t get past the starter.)

“So it would seem,” Sherlock replied, flashing a heavily sarcastic smile.

“Better go and find something to throw on, then,” Mary grinned. “Unless the dress code includes maternity jeans that you’re still wearing because you can’t face going to Westfield with a small child?”

“Yeah, probably not,” John smiled, leaning down to receive the kiss she offered.

“Molls, we can drop you at the station if you like?” Mary said, as she headed towards the bedroom to get changed.

She spotted her friend darting a glance at Sherlock before turning back to her.

“I don’t mind, I can stay,” Molly said, brightly. “I mean…if it would help, and if Sherlock doesn’t mind?”

“You don’t have to do that, Molly,” John said. “I know for a fact he’s not as clueless as he looks.”

When Mary returned to the living room ten minutes later, she found that John had changed into a decent suit (she’d enjoy getting him out of that later), and that Molly did in fact seem to be staying. A couple of issues of _Pathology Today_ were on the coffee table, along with a battered-looking copy of _Jane Eyre_ and a mini packet of Jaffa Cakes. She was still unpacking things from her oversized duffel, while Sherlock sat slightly further along the sofa, trying his best not to look as though he was watching her in fascination.

“Okay, so help yourself to anything in the fridge,” Mary told them as she rummaged in her handbag for her new(ish) lipstick. “Well, not the smoked salmon or the infant antibiotics, but anything else. There’s a bottle of wine in there, too, which you’re welcome to have. It came with an M&S meal deal, but it looks decent.”

Mary looked at Molly, seeing her friend smiling back at her. God – where had Molly Hooper been for most of her life? She tottered back over to the sofa and pulled Molly into another hug. As a passing shot, she also couldn’t help giving a quick ruffle to Sherlock’s hair (which he immediately, and with an exasperated sigh, began to finger-comb back into place).

“I’ll text when we’re on the way back,” she said, hearing John open the front door. “Now, behave yourselves!

As she noticed Molly’s gaze distracted, she took the opportunity to wink at Sherlock and add, in a stage whisper, “Oh yeah, I nearly forgot - John’s bedside cabinet, top drawer.”

She counted in her head, biting back a smirk, while she waited for him to catch on. His blank look was suddenly transformed into one that said _I’m going to kill you in your sleep_. And oh yes, Sherlock Holmes was blushing.

“Offer’s only good for tonight, Mary,” John sighed, checking his watch.

“Alright, Dr Watson, keep your pants on,” she replied ( _well, for now, anyway_ ).

Mary winked, mouthed ‘thank you’ at Molly, and followed her husband out of the door.

 

0000000000

They crept back in the flat shortly before eleven, although the blue reflection from a screen in the window told her that someone was still sitting in the living room. It turned out, in fact, that everyone was.

Sherlock looked up as they came in – clearly, he hadn’t heard them approach, and looked surprised to see them standing there. Mary felt her breath catch as she took in the scene, which was frankly quite adorable. Sherlock was sitting at one end of the sofa, with Rosie fast asleep and snoring on his shoulder; Molly was also asleep, under a blanket, the weight of her body resting up against him. Somehow, despite this, he was seemingly able to balance a laptop on one knee and do some work.

“Aahh, what happened here, then?” Mary whispered, grinning. “Everyone’s asleep!”

“Including my arm,” Sherlock replied. “Would you mind removing Rosamund from my person?”

John stepped forward and hefted their sleeping daughter into his arms. Sherlock shook his own arm, attempting to restart the circulation. At that point, Molly’s head poked out from under the blanket and, after blinking a couple of times, lifted herself away from Sherlock, who met her gaze with something Mary couldn’t quite decipher.

“Sorry,” she said, yawning. “Did you have a good night?”

“Amazing!” Mary replied. “Although I’m surprisingly hungry for someone who just ate seven courses. Five of them were basically just a mouthful, mind you. How was Rosie? Would she not settle?”

Molly explained that Rosie had basically been fine, but had probably had too much sleep earlier to want to stick to her usual bedtime. Hence the staying-up-late-with-grownups-and-watching-crap-telly. Mary noted, however, that the kitchen was immaculate, with a couple of pans resting on the drainer, along with a pair of wine glasses – so at least the babysitters must have had half-decent evening.

“Is that my laptop?” John asked suddenly.

“Yup,” Sherlock replied, popping the ‘p’. “You should probably change your password. And delete your browser history. Oh, and I believe that your recent order of ‘men’s tan brogues size 9 with height-increasing heel lifts’ has now been despatched.”

“You bloody-!” John hissed, unable to do much more with Rosie still in his arms. “Off! Now!”

“See if you can put her down,” Mary told John, dropping a kiss onto their daughter’s head. With a passing glower at Sherlock, John cradled Rosie – her head tucked under his chin – and took her off to their bedroom.

Mary yawned, stepping out of the heels that had been pinching her feet since about five minutes after they left the flat.

“God, I’m shattered, too,” she said. “You’re welcome to stay, by the way. The double in the spare room is all made up.”

It was too good an opportunity not to tease Sherlock, but to be honest, she was too bloody tired – even though he had glanced up at her, as though he was expecting it. _You can stand down, you silly sod_ , she thought.

“I might do that, actually,” Molly nodded, yawning again. “If you’re sure?”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Mary told her. “I’ll dig out a spare pair of PJs for you.”

She was about to address Sherlock when he cleared his throat.

“Apparently, Lestrade wants us to drive out to a crime scene in the morning,” he said, waving his hand around over his phone, as though it was the constant bearer of tiresome news. “Some country house thing. Probably makes sense if I stay here; save having to wait for your husband to get his arse over to Baker Street. Your sofa will be adequate.”

Mary wondered whether he realised that his ears were turning pink.

“Suit yourself,” she shrugged. “There’s pillows and blankets in the spare room. Don’t drool on the sofa, mind.”

Sherlock bobbed his head to one side and then the other.

“I’d hazard a guess it’s seen worse,” came his retort

“Git.”

“Goodnight, Mary,” he said, as though dismissing her from his bedroom. “And if you could possibly allow John to get a good night’s sleep tonight, I would appreciate it. When he’s operating in a sub-optimal condition, he’s little more use at a crime scene than a novelty garden gnome.”

Mary replied with a silent, sarcastic laugh. Their baby was sleeping, and she’d been ogling John in his best suit all evening, so if Sherlock Holmes thought she was going to let this opportunity pass, he had a _lot_ to learn about being in an adult relationship. Although, yeah, that really went without saying.

“Aren’t you going to say goodnight to Molly?” she asked, all casual innocence.

“Goodnight, Molly,” Sherlock said, almost too quickly, his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets.

“Um, yeah, ‘night Sherlock,” she replied, hoisting her duffel onto her shoulder.

Mary gave her a quick kiss on the cheek as Molly went past on her way to the spare room, and then she started turning off the lights, readying the flat for the night. She watched Sherlock resume contact with his phone, seemingly unaware that the room was being plunged into darkness around him. Something told Mary that he wouldn’t be there that long.

 

000000000

When Rosie woke at 4am, Mary was completely thrown; her daughter had slept for a six-hour stretch for the first time since she was brought home from the hospital. _Too much excitement with the godparents_ , Mary mused, as she went to fetch Rosie from her crib, beginning the pointless litany of shushes that did absolutely nothing to appease a hungry four-month old. John rolled over and said something nonsensical about ‘three continents’ before going back to sleep. Really, she should go and give him a kick, as it was _definitely_ his turn to get up with their daughter, but Mary was already on her feet, and she realised, too, that she needed to hold Rosie. It happened from time to time – when she hadn’t had physical contact with her little girl for a while, she felt it like a craving, a withdrawal.

If Sherlock was asleep (or not) on the sofa, he was about to be disturbed – she’d deal with his bluster and irritation in the morning. Mary carried Rosie through to the kitchen with her, her lips pressed to her daughter’s forehead as Rosie whimpered and protested.

As she passed by the end of the sofa, expecting to see a pair of oversized feet resting on the arm, she realised the living room was not occupied. So, Sherlock’s plans had clearly changed – perhaps there’d been an update from Greg. Somewhere in the flat, Mary assumed, there would be a note of explanation.

But then she glanced across to the front door, and spotted that Sherlock’s Belstaff and scarf were still draped unceremoniously over the coat-hooks. That prompted Mary to look more closely at the living room area, and she found herself unsurprised to see a pair of shiny black shoes neatly arranged by the coffee table, a suit jacket folded and resting on a sofa cushion.

Despite Rosie’s escalating upset, she felt a broad smile start to spread across her face, and couldn’t help but glance across to the door of the spare bedroom. It occurred to her then that Molly had left the door ajar when she went to bed, but that now it was closed. Someone had been fibbing when they said the sofa would be adequate.

 “We won’t tell Daddy, eh?” Mary chuckled to Rosie as she carried her to the kitchen.

As she waited for the milk to heat up, she found herself thinking about the virtues of living in the moment. She was feeling as though she had to accept that as far as future planning went, she had done as much as she could. Perhaps it was now time to enjoy what she had, what she and John had made together – and the friendships that they had been blessed with. The four people most important to her in the world were under her roof tonight, and who knew when that would happen again? Time to be thankful for the little things, and to let the big things come and get her if they dared.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where it ends...sort of.
> 
> There's still an epilogue to come soon...


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I feel as though I cheated a bit with this, because we’re doing a bit more of a time-hop than I’d originally planned.
> 
> Hope it doesn’t disappoint!

“Where did all of these teenagers come from?” Sherlock demanded, wearily and slightly testily, when he joined her in the kitchen.

Molly smiled over her shoulder at him from her position at the counter.

“Um, most of them are ours, remember?”

“They take up a lot of space,” he remarked. She could hear that he was attempting a huffed tone, but that there was affection not too far beneath the surface.

“Yes, I know,” she replied, pulling off the cheerful daisy-patterned rubber gloves and turning to face him. “And that’s why we don’t live here anymore.”

They had both been so emotionally attached to living at Baker Street that they had hung on there probably a bit longer than was practical. When they had learned that Molly was pregnant for a second time, they had agreed to see whether they could make 221B work for a family of four, but the arrival of baby number two – and the chaos that brought - soon forced their hand. It was only once they had more space that Molly could even contemplate the third child that Sherlock in particular had been keen to add to the family. So for the past fifteen years, Baker Street had been purely a place of work – which made being there now, having a celebration there with family and friends, both familiar and slightly weird at the same time.

Sherlock came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and dipping his head to kiss her neck. She smiled, giggling in response; eighteen years of this, and she still hadn’t tired of it.

“D’you think it went okay?” she asked.

“Mm,” Sherlock replied, his voice humming against her neck. “Yes. The meal was wonderful, as always, Molly.”

“Thanks,” she grinned, twisting her head to look up at him. “I think I might keep you after all.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Good,” he replied. “I was rather counting on it.”

His voice could still do the strangest things to her after all of this time. Coupled with the fact that at the age of fifty-eight, he was still slim, extremely handsome and very, very interested in her (as well as still being a spectacularly good shag). The greying hair only added to his mature appeal.

Sherlock released her from his grasp and reached past her for a tea towel. Of all of the things that could have prompted it today, weirdly, this was one that made her think of Mary – how she would have reacted to the sight of the domesticated version of Sherlock Holmes.

“How d’you think John’s coping?” Molly asked, leaning back against the counter, keeping her voice low so it wouldn’t carry through to the gathering in the living room. Not that they could likely hear anything over the sound of adolescent chatter.

“Trying too hard to be okay with it,” Sherlock replied. “Rosie’s not stupid; she’ll see straight through his pantomime act.”

“I suppose he’s got to try,” she considered. “Otherwise she’d feel too guilty to ever leave. But it’s got to be difficult for him, though. I know I’m going to miss her hugely, so I can only imagine how John’s feeling.”

“You won’t have to wait too long to find out,” Sherlock replied. “Ours won’t be too far behind.”

Molly rolled her eyes, bumping her hips against his.

“Thank you, Mr Holmes – that makes me feel  _much_  better.”  

Sherlock seemed to conveniently overlook her sarcasm.

“Anyway, it’s Cambridge, not Caracas,” he added. “It’s less than an hour away on a direct train.”

Molly sighed, leaning her head against his arm.

“I know,” she said. “But I’m used to having her hanging around the kitchen on a Sunday morning, coming to see me at work, going around the markets with me. And John’s used to having her home every night. He won’t know what to do with himself.”

Sherlock snorted again.

“He can borrow one of ours if he’s desperate,” he replied. “Or more than one.”

At that, Molly reached up and took his face in her hands, pulling him down so that she could plant a kiss square on his lips. He quickly caught up to the idea. Better take advantage of the moment of privacy – public displays of parental affection usually provoked an outcry of disgust.

“You’re fooling no-one,” she told him when they broke apart. “You’re a big softy where those three are concerned.”

“Hmm,” he replied, noncommittally.  

There were a few moments while they tackled the dishes in silence, but Molly could virtually hear her husband thinking.

“Speaking of children…”

“You do know it’s too late for another one?” Molly grinned.

“Yes – and you  _can_  have too much of a good thing,” he replied, wryly. “Do you have any idea what’s going on with our eldest? He’s barely opened his mouth all evening, had an expression of abject misery throughout dinner, and now he’s disappeared off somewhere.”

Molly smiled to herself; she’d wondered how long it would take Sherlock to notice, and then how long it would take him to work it out.

“I think it’s Rosie,” she told him.

“What about her?” Sherlock asked. “The fact that she’s leaving tomorrow?”

“Mmm, partly,” she replied. “Coupled with the fact that he’s in love with her.”

She watched Sherlock’s jaw spontaneously drop.

“I’m sorry, he’s what now?”

“Well, he  _thinks_  he’s in love with her,” Molly modified. “He’s sixteen. It probably feels real enough.”

Sherlock stood stock still, blinking hard.

“They’re friends,” he said, almost in protest. “When did this happen?”

Molly felt her face break into a smile.

“We were friends, too, remember?” she reminded him. “And if it’s any consolation, I think it’s one-sided in their case.”

“You  _think_?” Sherlock asked. Supposition was clearly insufficient for the circumstances as far as he was concerned.

“Rosie’s fond of Will,” Molly replied. “They’ve spent a lot of time together this summer, and they’ve become quite close again. But no self-respecting eighteen year-old girl – especially one who’s about to leave for uni – is going to embark on a relationship with a sixteen-year-old boy.”

“He’s going on seventeen,” Sherlock noted.

“There’s a song in there somewhere,” Molly grinned, knowing that she would be greeted by a blank expression. Nearly two decades of co-habitation had done little to expand Sherlock’s knowledge of popular culture.

“Anyway, don’t worry,” she told him with a wave. “He’ll work his way through it. It will be horrible, but we’ll be here if he needs us, and eventually he’ll get over it.”

“Or else he’ll abandon school, pack his bags and run away to Cambridge,” Sherlock said, a tiny note of despair in his voice.

Molly sensed that Sherlock was identifying with their son’s keenly-felt emotions. They were similar in so many ways, including physically – she had joked many times that Will looked as though Sherlock had cloned a copy of himself without any assistance whatsoever from her. That wasn’t quite true (Will had her smile), but she knew her husband felt a strong attachment to their eldest child, which was partly based on strong empathy and recognition.

Rosie had always gone to a different school, but over the summer, she and Will had found themselves in each other’s paths a fair bit. Instead of heading off for some post-exam sunshine with her friends, Rosie had been undertaking a work placement at Bart’s in advance of her university course; Will, meanwhile, was also at Bart’s, attending lectures and seminars as part of an accelerated learning programme after his GCSEs. The school had suggested that he skip a year, but Molly was insistent that he remained alongside his peers – they would find other ways to support his keen mind and thirst for learning. And now their handsome, gangly, brilliant boy, was discovering – probably later than most of his classmates – that there were other things besides books and the lab.

“Should I talk to him?” Sherlock asked tentatively, in a way that actually said  _please don’t make me talk to him_.

“And tell him what?” Molly grinned. “You had to wait until you were forty before you went through what he’s going through now. And then I had to put up with you getting into bed with me at random times over a period of months before you got up the nerve to take it any further.”

He adopted a mock-wounded expression, and Molly immediately remembered how hesitant and almost shy he had been in those days, all of the bluff and bluster of ‘being Sherlock Holmes’ falling away when he sought permission (often with just a look) to share her bed.

“I’m just saying it might not be a good tactic to share with your son,” she smiled.

Sherlock gave her the frown of a man who felt he’d been underestimated.

“I wasn’t planning to ‘share tactics’, as you put it,” he replied with a grimace. “I was thinking more along the lines of ‘this is a terrible idea – forget about it for twenty years’. After all, I have no wish for us to become grandparents before we’ve even got the second generation out of the door, and neither do I wish to have to fight John Watson over the honour of his daughter. He might be a few years shy of his bus pass, but he can still do some damage.”

Molly laughed, arching up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. Sherlock’s tendency to leap eight steps ahead was just one of the reasons why she been the one to have ‘the talk’ with all three of their children when the time came. Although, Sherlock, to his credit, had spoken very honestly to the two older ones about his past with drugs, and made it clear he would always be there if they needed him.

“Should I ask John instead?” Sherlock suggested.

Will’s godfather had a different way with him, which sometimes worked to their advantage.

“Ordinarily, I would say that would be a good idea,” Molly replied. “But this is his daughter we’re talking about, remember? Might be-”

“-a Bit Not Good, yes,” Sherlock said, nodding slowly.

At that moment, their goddaughter wandered into the kitchen, immediately picking up a left-over cheese straw and biting off the end.

“Have you seen Will?” Rosie asked.

Molly could see Sherlock’s eyes trying to meet hers, but she ignored him for the moment. His anxieties could wait.  

“Oh, he’s probably off doing coursework,” Molly replied, airily. “Sorry if he’s being unsociable.”

Rosie shrugged. God, she looked just like Mary when she did that.

“I just wanted to give him something, that’s all.”

Now Sherlock’s eyes were  _definitely_  boring into the side of her head.

“Go and hunt him down, Sherlock,” Molly told her husband, touching his arm affectionately. “He’ll be sorry if doesn’t get to say a proper goodbye before Rosie goes.”

Sherlock fired a look at her that said  _we’re chaperoning this, right?_ , and she gave him a tiny, reassuring nod in reply.

Once he’d gone, Rosie hitched herself up onto the kitchen island, where Sherlock’s latest work experiments had been recently tidied away (and shoved in the box room). Molly looked at her, really took her in. She saw Rosie at least once a week, but it was fascinating, wonderful, to watch her growing up in front of her eyes. There really was virtually no difference between her love for Rosie and what she felt for her own children. Slightly taller than her mum and dad, with John’s eyes, but Mary’s blonde hair and infectious, unmistakable smile. In the past couple of months, Rosie had started to keep her hair shorter, meaning that she looked even more like Mary than ever; something John can’t have failed to notice either.

“Thanks so much for tonight, Aunt Molly,” Rosie smiled, dusting her hands of pastry flecks. “Dinner was amazing, and it was lovely having it here for a change.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” Molly told her, moving to stand closer to her. “You know you’ll always be welcome here. Or wherever we are. We’re all going to miss you so much.”

Rosie nodded, touched a finger to the corner of her eye.

“Oh, don’t start me going,” she smiled, and Molly saw that her eyes had welled slightly. “I’ve been bad enough with Dad.”

Molly closed the distance between them and put her arm around Rosie’s waist as she sat on the counter.

“He’ll be fine,” Molly replied, squeezing her goddaughter. “He wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Rosie smiled, recovering before real tears could actually fall.

“Please,” she said. “Make sure Uncle Sherlock doesn’t let Dad retire. Or else he’ll be on the train to Cambridge every weekend.”

Molly laughed at that, and Rosie joined in. John was into his sixties now, but he and Sherlock were as busy as ever, although any skirmishes tended to take a lot longer to recover from now (she didn’t think either man knew that she and Rosie sometimes referred to them as Statler and Waldorf). They probably needed to slow down, but Molly wasn’t sure she would know what to do with an under-employed Sherlock Holmes. The much-threatened bee colony in the garden would surely become a reality, not to mention additions to the canine population of the family.

Making use of one of the kitchen stools, Molly climbed up to sit beside Rosie.

“You know your mum would be  _incredibly_  proud of you,” she said, placing a gentle hand on her goddaughter’s knee.

Rosie nodded, smiling. Molly saw her take a breath.

“I…I heard her voice properly for the first time,” she said quickly. “She made me a video...you know, before…It was in with all the paperwork from the solicitor.”

Molly felt her own breath catch. It was years since Sherlock had shown her the DVDs that Mary had sent to both him and John, but just the thought of them made her heart ache. She should have guessed that Mary wouldn’t overlook her daughter in this regard.

“I was supposed to get all this stuff when I turned eighteen,” Rosie continued. “But maybe there was a delay, or maybe Dad was too upset, I don’t know. Anyway, it was…it was like she was talking to me, like she knew what I’d be like now.”

Molly hugged Rosie close to her.

“She was your mum,” she replied.

“She told me a bit about herself,” Rosie continued. “Although I know she couldn’t say that much.”

Molly was aware that John had spoken to Rosie about her mum’s background, the past that had put her in jeopardy. Rosie knew, too, that Mary had essentially saved Sherlock’s life. Molly wondered whether, growing up, it had ever made Rosie angry at her mother, that she would put her friend before her child. Angry at her godfather, too, perhaps, wishing that it had been him. All Molly could do was to make sure Rosie knew how grateful, how unutterably grateful, that both she and Sherlock were to Mary. That she was indebted to Mary for her three, wonderful children and for the life she got to have with their father.

“It was nice to think…” Rosie started again. “That she thought about it, that she made plans…for me and Dad. She knew that I’d be okay, that I’d have you. That you’d be there.”

Inevitably, Molly felt her own tears fall now. That fight she’d had with Mary – the only one she’d ever had with her friend – had been so soon in advance of Mary’s death. She was so relieved that it had been resolved, that she had said yes, that they were at peace with each other at the end.

“It has been my absolute privilege, Rosie Watson,” Molly smiled, fixing Rosie’s gaze with hers. “And it always will be.”

Rosie sniffed, swiping her hand at her cheek before giving an unexpected giggle.

“You know, Mum knew about you and Uncle Sherlock,” she said.

Molly looked at her questioningly.

“I mean, you weren’t together when she died, right?” she continued. “But she knew you would be. She mentioned it in the video, that she hoped you two would give me some cousins.”

Molly felt her hand go to her mouth as he heart jumped in her chest.

“It was in the paperwork about the legal guardianship, too,” Rosie added. “Something about that if you and Uncle Sherlock got married, she wanted him to become joint-guardian with you.”

It seemed extraordinary that Mary could have been so perceptive, but Molly accepted that perhaps she and Sherlock had been giving off more of a vibe than either of them realised. She wondered for a moment why Mary never said anything to her directly – but perhaps her friend had been looking out for her, not wanting to push her towards something that clearly needed more time.  

“I think your mum must have known before we did,” she told Rosie.

“Yeah, and definitely before Dad,” Rosie put in, grinning. “He’s said a few times that he had no idea. But then Aunt Harry says he didn’t realise she was gay until they were both really old – like, in their thirties. Uncle Sherlock’s right – Dad sees, but doesn’t always observe.”

Molly snorted.

“Yeah, well, your Uncle Sherlock can talk,” she said. “I can give you a long list of things that he hasn’t observed particularly well over the years.”

 _His own son’s lovelorn state being the most recent_ , she reflected.

Rosie rested her head on Molly’s shoulder for a moment.

“I’m going to miss you so much, Aunt Molly,” she said quietly.

“You won’t need to,” Molly replied. “You come back and see us any time, and if you ever need me, I can jump on a train. And you can Skype whenever you like. Or Facetime, or whatever. You know, when I was at uni, all we had was a payphone in the lobby of the halls of residence - or if you wanted to send an email you had to find a computer room and stand in a queue.”

Rosie rolled her eyes and smiled.

“Yeah, I know,” she said. “Will says he’s going to come and visit soon, too.”

Molly had to hold back her own eye-roll.

“Oh, really?” she asked.

“Yeah. Apparently, there’s some museum about the history of science that he’s interested in,” Rosie replied. “Did you know he’s thinking about applying to Cambridge, too?”

“I did not know that, no,” Molly replied, suppressing a smile. She couldn’t wait to share this with Sherlock, to experience his reaction.

“Well, if Will wants to visit, he can come and sleep on my floor,” Rosie continued. “I mean, if the college is okay with that kind of thing.”

 _If his dad’s okay with that kind of thing, more like_ , Molly thought.  _And yours._

“That’s really kind of you,” she said, trying to walk the tightrope of diplomacy. “Although will has got his own studies to think about, too. But we’ll all come for a visit when you’re settled-  maybe we can all go to the museum he mentioned.”

She thought for a moment about her eldest son, no doubt plotting to impress the girl he admired by demonstrating his extensive knowledge of the history of science. The apple really did not fall far from the tree. It would no doubt depress Will immensely to think about all of those eighteen and nineteen-year old boys Rosie would encounter during the upcoming Freshers’ Week. Probably why he was hiding himself away.

“I’ll go and see if Uncle Sherlock has found him,” Rosie said, hopping down from the counter. She looked as though she was about to leave, when she paused and turned.

“Aunt Molly,” she began. “Tomorrow…Dad isn’t driving me up to Cambridge until after lunch, so I was wondering…could I come over and watch the video again with you? I’d really like you to see it and I…I don’t think Mum would have minded.”

Molly was starting to become accustomed to talking to Rosie like an adult, but in that moment, she sounded seven years old again, vulnerable, unsure and seeking reassurance. Molly wasn’t even sure how  _she_  would react to seeing Mary’s face and hearing her voice again after so long, but she’d deal with that; let things happen.

“Tell you what,” Molly said, putting an arm around Rosie’s shoulder. “I’ll send Sherlock and the others over to your house to help your dad pack up the car, and you can come to ours. We’ll watch the video, and then I’ll take you to your mum’s favourite café for lunch, my treat. Does that sound okay?”

Rosie nodded, a smile spreading across her face despite herself. She slipped out of Molly’s grasp and headed in the direction of the living room, and very soon Molly heard her voice joining in with the other kids – including Will’s (whose deepening tone she still hadn’t got used to).

“Found him out on the fire escape,” Sherlock announced as he entered the kitchen again. “Think I may have interrupted the composition of bad teenage love poetry, which is probably-”

He cut himself off.

“Are you…okay?”

Molly was touched by the obvious concern on his face – perhaps he was worried that she was hiding in the kitchen having a cry. She bent a finger in his direction, encouraging him towards her. Sherlock did as he was told, and Molly folded herself into his arms, welcoming the strong beat of his heart against her cheek.

“She’s going to be fine, you know,” Sherlock murmured into her hair.

Molly nodded. She felt Sherlock’s hand come up to stroke her hair.

“I just…I’ve always felt responsible,” she replied, looking up at him.

“I know,” he nodded. “And you have done an incredible job, Molly. John is a good man and a good father, but even he would acknowledge that he couldn’t have raised such a balanced, happy, confident young woman without your contribution.”

Molly smiled, as they pulled back to hold each other at arm’s length.

“You did your bit, too,” she told him.

Sherlock tilted his head to one side, then the other.

“Yes. Although the role of ‘human-climbing-frame and buyer-of-treats’ in the early years was far more gratifying than ‘object-of-teenage-derision’ is proving to be.”

Molly poked him gently in the ribs; Sherlock knew as well as she did that Rosie adored him, as did all three of their own children, despite the act they put on. Later on, Molly would take him to bed and show him just what an amazing man she still considered him to be, and he would reciprocate. And then Sherlock would listen patiently, attentively, while she voiced all of the thoughts and feelings about Mary that had been building in her mind during the day.

But that was for later.

“Come on, you,” she said, linking her arm with his. “We’ve got to get going. Oh, and I told Rosie she could drive.”

“What?! Why would you do that?” Sherlock replied, plainly horrified at the thought of a recently-qualified eighteen-year old negotiating the hellish roads of central London.

Molly grinned.

“Because, Sherlock Holmes, I’m a really, really cool godmother, that’s why.”

000000000

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …And that’s that. 
> 
> Would love to hear what you think - all the comments/reviews so far have been hugely appreciated!
> 
> Quite enjoyed writing middle-aged Sherlolly, and hopefully they haven’t gone too far OOC…

**Author's Note:**

> Thought and comments would really be appreciated. I've just come off the back of a very long fic, and this is me trying to get started with something new (and a bit shorter!)


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